The Guardian Of Baláirdh Drún
by Sweet September Storm
Summary: There was a low growl from the darkness. "It is fortunate you have transgressed for love of your daughters, O man, or you would not leave my cave alive." A mirthless laugh rose like thunder. "Or perhaps not so fortunate." Beauty & the Beast, re-imagined.
1. Good Hunting

~ Chapter I ~  
**Good Hunting**

* * *

A fearsome sun poured the last of its fiery rays through a gap in the clouds, close to the horizon. The light it gave to the world was baleful, gloomy and tinged an unnatural red. It was too weak to illuminate the wild black depths of the forest, but its uppermost branches caught the sun and held it, like enormous long-nailed claws. A powerful wind, the forerunner of an impending storm, lashed them into a frenzy, making a noise like old bones. Animal voices chattered in the dark, anticipating the night and the thrill of the hunt that was to come.

Old Morogh knew he would not survive the night. He cursed the need that had driven him from the safety of his fireside to the damp and danger of the forest, lamenting the fact that he would die without even succeeding in his venture. Pulling his cloak more tightly around his bony shoulders, the old man fingered his hunting knife and felt tears rise in his throat. His poor daughters—they would never know what had happened to their father. It was some small and ineffectual comfort to think that they would not live long after he had passed to miss him much; without the game he had set off to catch that night, they would soon starve.

Morogh raised his aged eyes to survey the sky. Night was indeed falling fast, faster than he had expected. The approaching storm urged it on, knowing its havoc would only be helped by the cover of darkness. Sensing the crackle of lightning in the air, a wolf howled nearby. Morogh drew his feet up under him and gripped the branches of the tree that supported him a little harder, cursing again the irony of his inevitable end: hunted by those he was hunting, eaten by those he had hoped to eat himself. Though he sat well off the ground, he had no doubt the creatures would smell him out and force him to remain in the tree until weakness delivered their prey into their waiting jaws. Morogh shuddered, considering the other possibilities. As terrifying as they were, he knew that the wolves were not the only hunters out that night.

The sun slipped behind the clouds once more, the ragged break in the leaden sheet colored like blood, as if the sky had been wounded. And it was—a fatal wound. The day was dying. Morogh watched as the west grew dark.

"Farewell, bright star!" he whispered. "'Nary shall I see you again."

The night came on in minutes, and with it, the full fury of the storm.

Morogh thought he would surely drown, or perhaps be washed from the tree, so powerful was the deluge. Unstringing his bow in a fruitless attempt to keep it from the water, he drew his hood low over his head. All was wet and darkness. Then, struck like a spark from the heavens against the flint of the earth, a great column of lightning clove the sky above him. Its thunder made the old hunter's teeth chatter. A second bolt rent the clouds in brilliant flashes of blue, and a third struck at the very base of Morogh's tree.

He cried aloud in terror. Wisdom was driven from his mind by the blinding heat, and he fell from the tree without thinking of the likely creatures that waited for him below. But, as fortune would have it, no wolves had yet scented his hiding place. The ground he fell to was bare of enemies. Morogh cowered on the burned and blackened earth, covering his head against the rain and the lightning.

For many minutes he lay there, insensible. Yet while he remained motionless, the storm did not. When the flashes of lightning and the heart-stopping reverberations of thunder had ceased to coincide above him, Morogh raised his head and looked around. The rain had not stopped and it was as dark as ever, but the intensity of the storm had passed over the mountain. Drawing himself to his knees, the old man felt the intoxicating joy of survival. One fear abated, he cried aloud to the skies, half taunting, half grateful.

However, he soon sobered. His fear of the storm had passed, but his fear of the forest remained. Joy quickly dissolved into panic as Morogh stood, searching for some sign that would lead him to his village. Knowing the deceptive nature of the forest, he had been careful to keep within eyeshot of at least one house while hunting; but in the darkness and the rain, he had lost all sense of direction. He couldn't even feel the tree he had fallen from. Panic strengthened. Though he had earlier accepted the inevitability of his death, his escape from the lightning had whet his will with the sweet taste of life. Now, cast alone in the hostile darkness and mud of the forest floor, Morogh knew he did not want to die.

He opened his mouth to call for help. Reason conquered his panic at the last moment. Making such a sound would bring the wolves to him even more quickly. He drew his knife and shut his mouth, his brain churning to life. He could not climb a tree again; in the dark he was more likely to break his leg than find shelter. Returning the way he came was no option either, as he had no idea what way it was. Morogh gripped his knife a little harder, feeling the tough leather hilt. It was a trusty knife, and deadly if used in an experienced hands. His hands had wielded it many times, and he was confident in his skill. But he knew he could not fight an enemy he couldn't see. The wolves would attack in a pack. He wouldn't have a chance.

Grim, Morogh brushed the rain from his brow. He considered the deluge. It had surprised him with its intensity, and, while it had grown lighter in the past few minutes, it looked as if it would continue through the night. The mud made squelching noises beneath his boots, and Morogh could feel the rain running in rivulets across the surface of the ground.

_So much water…_

_Water disguises the scent of prey,_ he realized with a start.

Morogh debated for a scant moment before he began moving. It was hardly a defense, but the rain was sure to lessen his trail. If—and Morogh had little doubt that they would—the wolves were to pursue him, he would rather make his end on the run than like some cornered hen. The possibility of getting lost was also forefront in the old man's mind, but he hoped to take advantage of the downpour while he could to find a place to wait out the night. Then, in the morning, he would try to make his way back to his village.

It seemed a reasonable plan. Until he heard them.

The snapping of twigs behind him was accompanied by the snapping of jaws. Morogh felt his reason slide again into panic. Pure, animal terror—he knew now what the deer felt at the baying of the deerhounds.

Blindly, he ran.

The pack began the chase, their chorused howling full of the relish of a predator assured of its prey.

But their meal of man was not to be.

Only dimly aware of what he was doing, Morogh bolted uphill through the darkened arms of the forest. Some ancient instinct whispered to him to continue his plunge towards higher ground, though he could think of no good reason for it. The mountain lay ahead, and Morogh knew he would be long exhausted before he had managed half its mighty slope. But he ran anyway, heeding only the voice of survival.

Quite suddenly he realized he was free of the clinging branches that had tried to slow his progress earlier. The realization didn't stop him, and he ran through the clearing without considering what it was. But then, even more suddenly, he felt that the rain had stopped.

As had the sounds of pursuit.

Morogh at last came to a halt, panting hard and holding the stitch that seized the muscles of his side. His lungs worked like blacksmith's bellows in an attempt to ease the strain he had forced on his aged body. Taking several cautious breaths, Morogh noted two things. One, the air had changed. While before it had been wet and cold, it was now dry and warm. Indeed, if he had not been soaked to the skin, it might have even been uncomfortably warm. Second, he noticed a smell. It was not easy to identify, and something told him not to try. It made him shiver, despite the warm air.

But all this he took in in an instant. Whirling to face his pursuers, he brandished his knife in a condemned man's final attempt to stave off death.

"Come on, then!" he cried to the pack, his voice breaking. "I am here! Take your prey…if you dare!"

A distant flash of lightning was his only answer. But by its momentary light, the scene before him emblazoned itself on his mind's eye.

He had found refuge in a cave. An arched lip of stone bordered his vision, and through it, he could see the forest. A broad clearing stretched out in front of the cave, as if the trees had feared to approach is yawning mouth. No grass or brush grew on it flat surface, and though the rain and rendered it muddy, Morogh figured it would have been covered in dust in fair weather. Plain, dry dust. It was exceedingly odd.

A second flash of lightning showed him more, and Morogh's fist clenched even more tightly around his knife. The wolf pack had followed him, but not beyond the edge of the clearing. They stood in a semicircle, their eyes fixed on their prey. One wolf, a great silver brute with dark markings on his muzzle, stood a little ahead of the rest, whining. Morogh watched it warily, sure that it was the pack's leader.

_If I could somehow kill it…the rest might scatter_. This plan forming in his mind, he edged one step closer to the wolf.

It did not move forward, but neither did it retreat. Instead, it leapt sideways as if it had been bitten by an insect. Whining, it pawed the ground and eyed Morogh's knife hand. Leaping to the other side, it began pacing slowly around the boundary of the clearing. The other wolves howled mournfully, but none dared to cross the line their leader walked.

The old man was astonished and puzzled. Unassisted by the lightning, his eyes had begun to adjust to the dark of the forest. He could see the outlines of his enemies, unmoved by his approach. Wary of the tricks of their kind, he took one more step forward.

The silver wolf stopped and howled.

It was joined by the rest of the pack, their hungry voices rising and falling in the primal song of blood and survival. Morogh shivered at the sound, but his resolution returned and he took one step more, emerging from the dry warmth of the cave mouth into the driving rain.

As his foot crossed the invisible threshold, a great rumbling shook the mountainside, throwing the old man backwards into the dust of the cave floor. Coughing and rubbing his eyes, he leapt to his feet, expecting the wolves to charge.

But their song had ceased, and they remained motionless at the edge of the clearing.

The strange thunder shook the mountain again.

With guttural yelps and wolfish screams, the pack flew from the cave, disappearing into the forest in less time than it took the old man to blink. He watched, mouth agape, as his enemies vanished.


	2. The Creature in the Cave

~ Chapter II ~  
**The Creature In The Cave**

* * *

Hours passed before Morogh was certain they were gone. As long as he could bear it, he stood at the cave mouth, his knife ready for action in his hand. When his knees trembled and his legs gave way, he sank upon the dust of the cave floor, exhausted. He knew it would be unwise to sleep, but his second unexpected escape from death had brought back some of his previous euphoria, and he felt secure in the stony embrace of his blessed shelter. While still far less inviting than his old homespun mattress, Morogh welcomed the dry dust of the cave as a fitting alternative to the mud outside.

Though a nagging part of his mind told him to be wary of all gifts of the forest—even life-saving ones—the old man could no longer fight off the desire to rest. Finding stonier ground a little further into the cave, he settled for a place near the entrance, his back pressed close to the warm wall.

Sleep came to him while he was still sitting up.

~o~

Morogh woke with a start. Recalling the events of the night before, he lashed out with his knife, expecting the steel blade to pierce wolf-hide. But it met only the soft resistance of cloth, and the tearing sound was accompanied by the gentle plashing of spilled liquid. Fearing it was blood, Morogh jumped to his feet with a yell, wondering what it was he had wounded. But as the sleep was driven from his eyes, he saw that it was no animate thing at all.

It was a woven skin, such of the kind that the women of his village used to hold goat's milk. He stared a little longer before he realized that the spilt liquid was, indeed, milk. Pale creaminess leaked from the knife wound, to be absorbed by the thirsty dust of the cave floor. Still stupid from his sleep, Morogh did nothing until the last of the drink was gone. Then he lowered himself to his knees and lifted the skin, wondering at its existence. Had someone placed it there overnight? But who? And why would they care to provision an old and unsuccessful hunter with such a gift?

These thoughts were still dancing through his head when he noticed the basket. It had sat a little behind the skin of milk, covered in a rough cloth. Morogh reached for it and pulled it closer, hesitating only a moment before uncovering its contents.

He inhaled sharply. Inside the basket, shining in the early morning light, as if ignorant of its humble bearer, was a crystal carafe of wine. Two loaves of white bread—the kind that poor Morogh had ever only seen on the sideboards of the very rich—lay nestled next to the wine. He removed the loaves with trembling hands, his hunger suddenly overwhelming. But the basket had not yet reached the end of its offerings. A matching goblet wrapped in silk was tucked in a corner, and at the very bottom, two fillets of fish had been carefully folded in a buttered cloth.

Morogh did not even consider the possibility of guile in this honest and wholesome food; he ate gratefully and without shame, hoping to soon see his invisible benefactor before he had to depart. Morogh finished his meal as the sun broke over the rim of the horizon, gilding the passing storm clouds with rosy gold. With the filling of his stomach came a raising of his spirits. Now that death no longer stared him in the face, the old man entertained a reasonable hope of tracing his path to the village again, and possibly even catching something on the way. He could not return to his daughters empty-handed.

And who knew? He might be able to sell the carafe and goblet for a good price to the traveling merchants that visited his village every few weeks. A smile played on the old man's lips as his daydreams distracted him from reality. Morogh fingered the faceted crystal. They might even be valuable! He might be bringing his girls a fortune! He might…

A tinkling sound from the darkness pulled Morogh back to the cave. His pleasant fantasies evaporating like mist, he set the basket on the ground and seized his knife. The noise grew louder, though it didn't seem hurried. Morogh bit his lip and gathered up his courage to shout into the darkness.

"You there! Show yourself! I am armed!"

The tinkling only got louder, though no one replied. He held his breath and readied his knife to strike.

But there was no need. Only seconds after he had announced himself, the gentle black muzzle of a billy goat thrust itself out from the curtain of shadow that obscured the recesses of the cave. It looked at the old man quizzically but came forward without fear. Morogh laughed aloud in relief as the creature reached him, nuzzling his knee with the end of its velveted nose. He bent to scratch behind its ears, whistling in wonder at the little harness it wore upon its back.

Two large baskets, each of the same kind as the one that provided his breakfast, hung by black leather straps from either side of the goat's round belly. They were covered in coarse cloth, but Morogh did not need to lift either to know that they were filled as the previous basket had been. The smell of freshly baked bread hung in the still air, masking the smell that had so bothered him the night before. But he had long since ceased to notice it.

The goat nudged his hand and Morogh looked down again. It was clearly a tame creature, and it liked his attention. He continued scratching its ears, marveling at the little silver bells that had been attached to the harness. It was a well-fed goat, he noted, and he wondered if his mysterious benefactor wanted him to have the animal. Morogh frowned, thoughtful. It had been a very long time since he had been able to buy a goat, either for milk or meat. Of his two daughters, only the oldest would have remembered the taste of either. The youngest was not yet seventeen. Morogh sighed, ashamed. He had not been able to afford even a goat for seventeen years.

But now he could. He lifted his head and stared at the goat. It stared back, gentle and trustful. Kind as his host must undoubtedly be, Morogh had no doubt the goat was intended for him. He smiled. Perhaps his trek home would be shorter than he anticipated—here was the game provided already.

Quick as a wink, Morogh seized the neck of the creature and drew his knife across its glossy throat. It hardly had the time to bleat, so fast was the hand that took its life. Collapsing to its foreknees, the goat gave what sounded like a sputtering cough and moved no more. Morogh grimaced at the warm red stream that pooled from the severed throat, but he hurried to untangle the goat's body from the burden of its harness. He would carry that over one shoulder, with the carcass over the other. It seemed a good plan.

But he hadn't even the chance to unbuckle the leather straps before a thunderous rumbling knocked him to his knees, tossed face forward over the body of the slain animal.

"You _dare_ even _this_, foolish mortal?"

Morogh's face went white as salt and he felt his heart sink in his chest. He could not mistake the rumbling for thunder in the daylight, though he had the previous night. With quaking hands he steadied himself, though he remained on his knees.

The voice spoke again, shaking the very dust with the force of its fury. "_This_ is how you repay my kindness? You slaughter the creature I send, whose life was not yours to take?"

Morogh could hardly push the words past his trembling lips. The voice was impossibly large and loud, and he could not help but imagine the giant thing to which it must belong. "Forgive me, sir! I…I…"

"SPEAK!"

"I thought…I thought it was a gift!" He screwed his eyes shut and extended his hands. "Forgive me!"

The voice was silent for a moment, though Morogh could hear the sound of stones rattling and a long, drawn out hiss. He shuddered. At last his host spoke again. "I grant you your life, fool, but only for a price. I watched as you faced the wolves this passed night, and your courage shows that you have much yet to live for. But it will cost you."

Morogh felt tears of terror run down the sides of his face. "W-what, sir?"

"You unlawfully shed blood when you took the life of this creature. I allowed you to take it, though it was a gift I would not have chosen to give. But you must provide a gift in its place. That, and you must answer honestly one question of mine."

Morogh felt his terror abate a little. A live goat for a dead one…poor though he was, he could surely meet such a demand if his life depended on it. "Ask, sir. I will do as you wish."

"Give me your unbreakable word!" the voice hissed.

"I give my word…I swear!" Morogh cried.

Something raspy sounded from the dark, and the old man felt a dry wind blow past his face, carrying with it the strange smell. He tried to make himself as small as possible as the voice continued. "Remember, foolish mortal, that you have sworn. You will not break this vow, for your very life depends on it."

Morogh nodded, mute.

"Then you will first answer my question, and you will take care to tell the truth. Why did you take the life of this animal, when I had already provisioned you with all that was needed?"

Again Morogh extended his hands, weeping freely. To his credit, he did not even consider lying. The truth, he knew, was pitiable enough. "Oh, sir, forgive me! I had been hunting in this forest for a day and a night and had caught nothing. My children…my two daughters…they needed food. We have nothing left in our stores, and our neighbors are no longer kind. I had no choice!" He touched the body of the goat. "This goat would have fed us for a week! I thought it was a gift!" he said again.

There was a low growl from the darkness. "You speak the truth, O man. You have transgressed, but it is fortunate that you have transgressed for love of your daughters." A deep booming note echoed through the stony chamber, rising like the wave of the sea and cresting over Morogh with the force of a physical blow. To his terrified ears, it sounded not unlike mirthless laughter. "Or perhaps not so fortunate."

The old man did not want to know what the voice meant. All he could think of were his daughters. He wanted to return to them, even if it was the last thing he did. "Please…please, sir. Allow me to go. I will come back with whatever you ask of me as payment for the goat."

A snort. "You will not, mortal! I know your kind. You will break this vow, though it cost your life."

Helpless, Morogh denied it. "I will not! I have sworn, haven't I?"

Again, the cheerless laughter. "That is because you do not know what it is I ask of you."

"Then tell me, sir!"

"I will tell you when the time is right, small one. Now you must return to your village. You will take the goat and feed your children. But I give you this warning: in three days I shall send my servant to fetch my recompense. You must not deny him."

Morogh bowed his head. "I promise!"

A moment of dry silence passed before the voice spoke again. "Now go. Take what you have bought so dearly and leave my mountain. A day's journey to the lower ground will bring you to your village." A growl shook the earth again. "You must never return here."

The old man rose unsteadily to his feet, staring into the darkness that shrouded his mysterious host.

"GO!"

Morogh wasted just enough time to collect the baskets and the goat's carcass before he ran for his life.


	3. Baláirdh Drún

~ Chapter III ~  
**Baláirdh Drún **

* * *

The village of Baláirdh Drún lay at the crossing of the journeymen's roads deep within the forest. Tucked into the protective shadow of Mount Drún, a wall of earth and stone surrounded the village. The village's main thoroughfare ran uphill, with the finest houses situated on the highest ground and the poorest nearest the valley, where the trees grew thicker and the darkness was deep.

Morogh's thatched stone hut was the very last one in the village, downhill from all the others. He had one near neighbor—a withered old woman whose hut kept a good stone's throw from his, as if it had reason to dislike it. Morogh's daughters helped their father earn a living by serving the old woman, but neither of them liked her. Poor as they were, however, they could not choose their own company.

It was in this woman's garden that his youngest daughter was toiling the evening after the storm. The deluge had washed away the carefully planted tubers the girl had placed just days before, and the cantankerous old hag had ordered her to find and replant every missing bulb. It was nigh impossible. Her ratty hair wrapped in a rag and her dress filthy from the mud, she spared her employer's hut a venomous glance. She could hear the clattering of pots inside, nearly drowning out the indignant screeches of the old woman.

"You worthless little_ rat_! You're scrubbing with yesterday's grease-cloth!"

The girl in the garden smirked and bent her head to her task. Her older sister Padraigin had not made a mistake with the cloth; it was her little way of returning Old Eithné's beatings from the week before. _Clever Padra,_ her sister thought. _She'll expect a prank to equal hers…I must start thinking…_

But her rumbling stomach banished her mischievous plots to a far corner of her mind. She frowned, searching for one of the last lost bulbs. Though she dearly wished to cause trouble for Eithné, their family could not afford the lost wages. The old woman did not pay well, but Padraigin and her sister were due their twelve pennies that very evening. That meant they could eat tonight. The grubby girl's stomach rumbled even louder. She had not eaten since the morning before, apart from the dry crust Eithné had tossed her that afternoon. She hardly counted that as _eating_.

"_Fíohra_!"

The girl jumped up, wiping her muddy palms on the apron of her dress. It made little difference, for the cloth was already shamefully stained. But Fíohra didn't notice. Eithné was calling, and she made for the door with a hurried step.

"Yes, ma'am?"

Eithné's wrinkled mouth worked up and down, as if she were savoring her displeasure with the two girls. Padraigin joined her sister in front of the old woman, waiting for their employer to speak.

"You…you two." The old woman pointed a crooked finger at the pair and her watery eyes narrowed. The girls waited patiently, knowing Eithné couldn't bear to pay them without first delivering a sound scolding for some fault or another. "You have cost me more that you're worth! Nothing done right! Nothing done quick! You are fortunate I'm a kind-hearted woman," she began, and Fíohra had to wipe her nose in an attempt to disguise her laughter. Eithné glared and the girl fell silent. "You're fortunate I take pity on your miserable family! Here," she said as she tossed Padraigin a tiny leather purse. "And be grateful for it!"

The two girls bobbed their heads in minute curtsies as Eithné shooed them out of her hut. Once in the free air, Fíohra turned and stuck out her tongue at the old woman. Her sister tsked. "Fío, don't. We can't antagonize her anymore today."

Fíohra removed her sweaty headscarf and shrugged. "Then there will always be tomorrow." She nodded to the huts uphill. "Are we buying food now?"

Her sister bit her lip. "I think we should wait for father."

The merry mood that had settled on the younger girl evaporated in an instant. Their father had disappeared into the forest the morning before, hoping to replenish their bare pantry. But he had promised to come back before dark. When he failed to return both grew worried. One of the only villagers who dared to make use of the forest, their father was always cautious. His daughters could not think of what had happened to him—or at least they tried not to think of it. There were far too many things that could delay a man under the gloomy fastness of the trees, and none of them were pleasant. With the sun fast approaching the horizon, his chances of returning to the thatched hut on the edge of Baláirdh Drún grew slimmer and slimmer.

Padra squeezed her sister's shoulder, observing her concern. Though equally worried for their father's safety, she tried to ease the burden off of Fíohra. "Though if you're hungry, I don't think he'd mind."

Grateful but undissuaded from her somber thoughts, Fíohra nodded, following her sister up the hill to the village proper. They ignored the cold stares and whispered comments as they passed the houses, making for the outdoor ovens of the village baker. For twelve pennies, he had always been able to spare a loaf of bread for the sisters.

But they never reached the bakery.

A cry of astonishment brought the girl's attention to the highest point of the village, directly uphill from where they stood. A housewife stood at her door, pointing towards the wall. It was she who uttered the cry. Fíohra squeezed her sister's hand. "What's Eira on about now?"

Her question was answered as the carcass of a goat flew over the village wall. The woman standing at her door began screaming in earnest.

"Somethin's coming! Somethin's coming, everyone! Ye pitchforks! Take up ye pitchforks! Look to the wall!"

Her shouts roused the rest of the village. Shabbily dressed men and young women holding the day's laundry poured out from their homes into the street. They all looked a little dazed until the first woman pointed out the body of the goat.

"We are attacked! Baláirdh Drún! Defend yeselves!" she continued to cry.

Padraigin pushed her sister out of the way of the blacksmith, who had leapt to his town's defense with a handful of smoking iron pokers. "Where?" the man cried, adding his voice to the mayhem. "Where be this intruder?"

Unfortunately, however, he was unable to test the mettle of his makeshift weapons on the 'intruder.' For soon following the goat's body, a hand came over the top of the wall, gripping the stone until its knuckles were white. It was connected to an arm, then a shoulder, and then, to both the annoyance and relief of the villagers, the tousled head of old Morogh.

Fíohra did not wait for her father to descend the wall. As soon as she saw it was him, she cried out and shoved her way through the crowd of villagers, her sister hard on her heels. Balancing himself on the top of the wall, Morogh reached out shaking hands to his daughters. His face was deathly pale.

"Father?" Padraigin said. "Are you a'right?"

"Oh, Padra. Oh, Fío," he mumbled, tears coursing down his weathered cheeks. "O, my daughters." And without warning he pitched forward.

"Father!" They rushed forward at the same moment, but even their combined efforts were not enough to break his fall. Morogh landed hard, his arm striking the ground before the rest of him. There was a dull wrenching sound as the weight of his body tore his arm from its socket. Fíohra screamed again. "_Father_!"

But to her—and everyone else's—surprise, Morogh made no sound of complaint. While Padraigin tried to steady his wounded limb, he only looked at his daughters with tears in his eyes, sparing an occasional glare for the glossy black goat carcass. Even when his reluctant neighbors came forward to offer help escorting him home, he said nothing. It was only when he had been laid on his own mattress and left along with his daughters that he gave any indication that he felt his injury.

Fíohra drew a blanket over him and helped him lean against the wall. Her sister had started a fire on their hearth and was preparing some strips of linen for a sling. She bit her lip and looked at Fíohra, though she spoke to her father. "Father? Can you hear me?"

Morogh opened his eyes and stared at Padraigin. "Padra?" he said softly.

She smiled a tearful smile. "Yes. It's me. Fío and me." She paused. "We're going to have to…put your shoulder in again."

He nodded slowly, as if just realizing he had injured his arm. After a moment, his eyes began to clear as the pain started to register. "A'right you are, child." With a weak grin, he gave Fíohra his other hand. "Best hold tight then, eh, Fío?"

"I will, father." Padraigin readied herself on his other side and Fíohra nodded. "Do it quick."

The words had scarce left her mouth before their father let out a terrible yell, which quickly dissolved into a brave whimper of pain. His daughter had indeed been quick. The shoulder was back in its place. Breathing hard, Morogh squeezed Fíohra's hand and his grin widened. "A bit delayed, I'm afraid."

She wasn't sure if he was referring to his return from the forest or to the reaction to the replacement of his shoulder, but she was glad to see his spirits improved. A tear dripped off the end of her nose and she wiped it away with a tentative chuckle. "Suppose so."

Padraigin felt her father's forehead, relieved that it was free from fever. As she helped him into her makeshift sling, she noticed the goat's harness for the first time. Furrowing her brow, she pointed it out to her sister. "Father? What is that?"

Morogh's good humor vanished and he trembled. "Ah! It was my folly!"

Fíohra reached out to touch the tiny silver bells. "What do you mean? And wherever did you get a goat?"

A very dreadful look came over her father's face, and he trembled again. "It was…it was a gift." All of a sudden he began to weep. "Forgive me, daughters! Fío, Padra…I was such a fool!"

Padra exchanged a frightened glance with her sister. She took his other hand. "Father, please. Tell us what happened!"

Morogh didn't answer for a long time. He merely stared at the body of the goat, half imagining that it would leap to life and accuse him of his treachery with the voice of its master, the Creature of the cave. Indeed, for a moment, when the evening breeze ruffled its fur, he thought it was returning to life. But the wind sank, leaving the animal very silent and very dead. Morogh wits returned to him. Sighing deeply, he shared with his daughters the events of the past two days, culminating in his full-day's run down the mountainside, his climb of the village wall and his exhausted collapse in their arms. As he concluded his tale, Fíohra squeezed his hand.

"Thank you, father," she said quietly.

Padraigin nodded. "Aye. You're very brave."

In his heart, Morogh was relieved that his daughters had accepted his tale without question. Many times during his breakneck descent down the mountain, he had thought that the whole encounter with the mysterious voice must have taken place in his imagination. But the very real burden of the goat and the basketed provisions drew him out of his doubt, and it eased his mind to know that at least two others knew he was in his right mind.

His oldest daughter adjusted the sling and helped her father lay down again. Fíohra drew the blanket up to his chin and kissed his forehead. "Now rest, father."

So rest he did.


	4. Ransom's Eve

~ Chapter IV ~  
**Ransom's Eve**

* * *

Morogh woke only to eat and drink over the course of the next day. Soon after he had slipped from consciousness, his daughters had discovered the bounty in the baskets. It would not have counted for much at the table of a wealthy family, but for Fíohra and Padraigin, it was more food than their humble hovel had ever seen at once. The goat, too, was not to be forgotten. While their father slept, the sisters dragged it closer to the fire and began the long, messy process of skinning, butchering and smoking the meat so it could be saved. As the daughters of a hunter, both girls had learned such basic skills in their childhood. It was a tedious chore, the promise of a real meal at their completion notwithstanding.

So, to pass the time, they talked of their father's experience in the forest.

Padraigin thought he had stumbled into the lair of some bandit who wished to frighten him with threats. But Fíohra disagreed, reminding her sister of the provisions the master of the cave had given their father. And a bandit was unlikely to have inspired the fear the pack of wolves showed when faced with the thunderous voice. They went back and forth over the matter, but as long as they conversed, one topic never surfaced. Neither sister mentioned the recompense the voice had demanded, for each feared to think of what it might be. They owned barely enough as it was; the goat would have cost a prosperous man like the blacksmith a full week's wages. Though neither would admit it, the fact sat like an ugly toad in both their minds. Each slept that night with their half-smothered fears looming dark and ominous in their dreams.

~o~

And so the third day since Morogh's entrance to the cave dawned upon the village of Baláirdh Drún, casting its wan light into the windows of the thatched hut nearest the wall, and the three restless dreamers that tossed on its dusty floor.

Morogh woke first. His body had been slow to recover from his day-long run, and his shoulder hurt more than he would have liked to admit. Heaving himself up from his mattress, Morogh looked with a father's fond eye at the pair of girls sleeping in the far corner of the hut. They lay next to each other on a single mattress, sharing a blanket for warmth. Padraigin and Fíohra had taken good care of him when he was recovering, helping him eat and drink when he woke and covering him up carefully when he slept again. Their ministrations had worked as well as any medicine, Morogh thought as he stretched his healthy arm. A good day's sleep after a hard day's run. That was all he had needed. Two days…

_Two days._

He froze.

The voice had told him that a servant would collect his recompense on the third day.

Silently, the old man counted. He had spent one day running and more than one day sleeping. _This day is the third day,_ he realized with a thrill that chilled him to his very bones. _The day he comes._ Morogh glanced again at his daughters. Fíohra slept still, but Padraigin was stirring. Seeing her father awake, she sat up. Without asking, each knew what the other was thinking.

"It's today, daughter," Morogh said solemnly. "You remembered?"

She nodded as her unconscious sister felt around for the misplaced blanket. Her face was grim. "What do you want us to do?"

Mastering the shiver of fear that crawled down his spine, her father clenched his good fist. "Have the merchants passed this week?" Padraigin shook her head and Morogh frowned. He had hoped to peddle the crystal dishes to the traveling merchants that did business in Baláirdh Drún, but at his daughter's gesture those hopes were dashed. Yet there remained some chance. Though their village was small, there were a few families that called themselves well-off. They might take an interest in the crystal goblets and carafes. Morogh's resolve hardened. "Padra, listen to me." He nodded to the covered baskets, now bereft of their delicacies. "You and I will each take a goblet to the doors of our neighbors and offer to sell them."

Padraigin's eyes brightened, for the proposal seemed promising. "And how much will we ask, father? I've 'nary seen the like of these before. They may be too fine."

Morogh sighed. "You're right. Take the most anyone will offer you. If you sell the one, come back for a carafe. We will put the earnings together this evening."

His daughter bit her lip. "And will it be enough?"

"I don't know." He glanced once more at Fíohra, a smile warring against the doubt that haunted his face. "But we shall see." Nodding to his youngest, he motioned for Padraigin to get up. "Let's let her sleep a while longer."

Padraigin obeyed, draping the blanket over her sister as she followed her father in rising. Moving as softly as they could to keep from waking Fíohra, they together set Morogh's plan into motion.

~o~

To Morogh's surprise, they sold the goblets fairly fast, though at a far lower price than they were worth. He rejoiced at the greedy gleam in his neighbors' eyes as he peddled the crystal-ware from one door to the next. One family declared they were not interested, but hung out their windows to watch as Morogh moved on to the next house. At the first sign of interest from their neighbors, the old hag of the first family rushed out of doors and seized the goblet from Morogh with the announcement that it was not for sale. The coins in her hand silenced any complaint from the old man, and he left quickly to avoid a disputation with the second family. He had the money; they were welcome to their neighborly strife.

Padraigin had similar luck, and by noon they met again at the door of their hovel, their spirits significantly improved from the morning. Together they entered, finding Fíohra awake and stirring the fire. She looked up as they came in.

"'Morning. Or afternoon, rather. Where have you been?"

Padraigin poured her earnings onto the hearthstones. "Fío, look! We have money!"

Fíohra's eyes widened as their father added his coins to the tiny pile. "But that's…!"

"It'll pay the debt," Morogh said with relief. "No goat would sell for more."

His younger daughter bit her lip. "Are you certain?"

Morogh nodded vigorously, as if to assure himself as well as his daughters. "It must."

Padraigin encouraged a change of subject as she swept the coins into a rude earthenware pot. The silver and copper pieces clinked the merry tune of security as she placed the pot on the mantle. Wiping her hands on her apron, she smiled at her sister. "No more talk of money. Aye, Fío?" She bent to the hearth where Fíohra was stirring a pot of goat's meat. Her stomach rumbled. "Is it ready?"

"Not yet." Fíohra pinched a few leaves of dried rosemary and tossed them in the pot, filling the dusty hovel with a scent it had not known for more than seventeen years. "Soon."

~o~

The family ate their meal in relative silence. Each was eager for the day to be over, for the mysterious servant to claim his master's payment and leave them in peace. Their portions of stew eaten and the rest stored carefully for the future, father and daughters busied themselves with the menial chores required of any household, no matter how poor.

Fíohra set about cleaning the hide of the goat, hoping to have it ready for her sister by the evening. It would make a fine waterskin when dried and sewn together. Padraigin sprinkled and swept their dirt floor in an effort to reduce the dust before she was called outside by her father. His left arm useless in its sling, he was unable to tend to their little garden by himself, so Padraigin helped him.

Unfortunately, their plants had suffered much in the same way as Old Eithné's had. The deluge had dislodged many of the young vegetables from their muddy beds. Padraigin set about replacing those that could be salvaged while her father did his best to find the errant plants and return them to her. By the evening hour, however, both realized that they had lost more than a third of the crop they had planted. The summer, when it came, would be a hungry summer.

Again.

Cursing their omnipresent poverty, Morogh returned to the hovel with his daughter. The day was ending and their debt must soon be paid. But he wanted to be secure within his own walls when the servant came. Indeed, if he had trusted his neighbors not to steal it, he would much rather have left the jar of coins outside their door. Then he would not suffer a face-to-face encounter with the Creature's minion, in whatever terrifying form it might take. Nor would his daughters.

Morogh was considering this as the sun slipped beneath the forest's grasping horizon.

His thoughts were interrupted as a scream pierced the dying dusk air.

Fíohra and Padraigin looked up in alarm from their preparation of the goat's skin. Their father leapt to his feet, his face white. Drawing his hunting knife from its sheath on the wall, he motioned for his daughters to move to the far side of the hut. Without a word, they obeyed. Morogh took up the jar of coins and placed himself in front of the closed door. His hand trembled but he raised his chin in silent defiance to the yet-invisible messenger. The payment was ready, he told himself. He had nothing fear.

More screams rent the air, closer this time. Padraigin squeezed her sister's hand and pushed her further into the shadow of the wall. "Don't worry, Fío. It will be gone soon," she said for both their sake's.

The cries of their neighbors suddenly ceased, and the three in the hovel stiffened. They could hear something outside their door, and it sounded very large. They held their breath.

A powerful knock shook not only the door but also the very walls of the house. Padraigin shuddered and put a trembling arm around her younger sister. Fíohra's eyes were wide and staring. Morogh pulled himself straighter as a second knock rattled the teeth in his head. He tightened his grip on the knife.

"Enter." The old man's voice was little more than a whisper.

The door flew open.


	5. A Life for a Life

~ Chapter V ~  
**A Life For A Life**

* * *

Fíohra had to stifle a scream. The man on their threshold—if it was a man at all—stood a full seven feet tall. He was robed in a long black cloak, his face hooded and his head bowed. Behind him, standing in the twilight outside, Fíohra caught a glimpse of a great charger, massive enough to serve as a fitting mount for the dark messenger. It whinnied and tossed its head, and Fíohra shuddered in her sister's arms. No flesh-and-blood horse could make such a sound; it was the screech of iron on stone, ground from the throat of the creature like the gears of some devilish machination.

Morogh's knife hand shook at the messenger's entrance, but he stood firm. "Are you the servant of the Creature in the cave?" he asked the robed figure. But it gave no answer. Instead—to the old man's horror—its massive hooded head turned in the direction of his daughters.

In the space of a heartbeat, Morogh saw it all.

"_You will break this vow, though it cost your life."_

"_I will not!"_

"_That is because you do not know what it is I ask of you."_

Morogh felt his heart torn open in his chest. He had thought—or rather, he had fervently hoped—that the voice was only trying to frighten him with the threat of an unpayable debt. Not once had he allowed himself to consider that the Creature spoke the truth, that he would truly rather die than fulfill his vow and give the required recompense. For Morogh now knew, with that single look, what it was that had been demanded of him.

The messenger had not come for money. It came for his daughters.

"_NO!_"

He leapt forward at the same moment as the black-cloaked figure, ignoring the pain in his shoulder as he raised his knife to strike. Consequences were far from his mind as he brought the blade down on the robed back. In that moment he was a father only, and his daughters would be taken at the cost of his life.

Padraigin and Fíohra screamed in unison as the knife descended.

But to their horror, the blade did no more tear the fabric of the messenger's cloak before it broke, splintering in shards of bright steel that fell to the ground with a clinking sound. His arm aching from the deflected blow, Morogh dropped the hilt and threw himself between the dark figure and his cowering girls.

"NO!" he cried again. "You cannot have them!" He paused. "Take me instead!"

The messenger stopped. Then, slowly, it raised an arm. The sleeve of its robe fell back, revealing a hand made entirely of what seemed to be stone. Morogh felt the blood freeze in his veins as it began to speak.

"Stand aside, mortal. You must fulfill your vow." Like the horse outside, it was a voice not of flesh and blood, but rather of stone, earth and strange power.

"I will not fulfill it!" Morogh cried at the top of his voice. "I will not let you take them!"

"Only one is required, O man. My master not so ungenerous."

"NO! Kill me first!"

The figure did not reply. Instead it straightened, bringing itself to its full height. The stone hand reached out to Morogh, palm flat. For a moment it remained silent and unmoving. Then it pronounced a single word that shook the tiny hovel with power.

Morogh slumped to the floor.

"_Father!_"

Padraigin threw herself under her father's body, breaking his fall before his head hit the hard packed earth. She could not speak as she cradled his injured shoulder, the tears flowing freely down her face. Unthinking, her sister rose to her feet and ran towards the messenger, her small fists balled in fury.

"BEAST! COWARD! _MURDERER_!"

The Creature's servant paid her no more heed than a troublesome fly. Using only one hand, it arrested her progress in an instant, the cold stone fingers closing in an unbreakable collar around her neck. It did not tighten its grip, but it did hold Fíohra immobile. As the younger girl tried desperately to remove the fingers from her throat, its hooded head moved from her to her sister. Padraigin was silent and still, her terror paralyzing her more effectively than any power expended at the hand of the messenger. At last the dark figure spoke.

"Your father lives, small ones." It looked again at the struggling girl in its stony grasp. "You will suffice," it said, releasing its hold. Fíohra fell to the ground, mute with the feelings that stirred in her heart at the servant's words. Joy sprang up at the knowledge that Morogh was alive. But the feeling was quickly countered by dread as the stone hand locked itself around her wrist and pulled her to her feet. The servant began moving for the door.

"Fío, _no_!" Padraigin screamed. "Let her go!" she begged the messenger, torn between staying with her injured father and attempting a rescue of her sister. But the creature continued as if it had not heard her.

It took a few moments for Fíohra's panicked brain to realize what was happening. By the time she had, her kidnapper had already crossed the threshold. Desperate, fear gave her strength she never knew she had. "Let me GO!" she cried, pulling against the manacle that held her.

But she might as well have struggled against the mountain itself; the messenger was unmoved, its grip on her wrist unbroken. With scarcely the effort it took to lift a feather, the dark cloaked figure hefted her into its arms, disregarding her cries for help and pathetic attempts at wounding its stony flesh. Mortal burden in tow, it approached the charger waiting in the street.

Suddenly understanding her captor's intent, Fíohra redoubled her efforts to escape. But it was useless. Reaching the creature, it lifted the girl onto its back and swung up after her, pinioning her to its chest with one arm. It spoke a word and touched the beast's head as the unnatural whinny pierced the still night air. The creature leapt forward. Unprepared for their sudden departure, Fíohra's head slammed backwards against her captor's chest and she slipped into darkness.

Padraigin reached the door just in time to see the horse-like creature leap the village wall in a single bound, bearing the black-cloaked kidnapper and the unconscious body of her little sister into the dark unknown of the forest.

~o~

Fíohra did not understand what was happening. Her head hurt, her eyes refused to open, and there was the most unusual noise all around her, like the flowing of fast water. It was cold, too, and she shivered.

"You are awake, little mortal."

With a jolt, she remembered everything. Wrenching her eyes open, she was greeted with a disorienting onrush of dark shapes and shifting shadows, accompanied by a powerful wind. The voice that had addressed her was flat and bloodless, and it chilled her more than the wind. She was astride the enchanted charger, a prisoner of the cave Creature's stone servant. The thrill of dread seized her heart and she swallowed, unable to reply.

"Do not think of escape," the messenger warned in absence of her reply. "We are moving too quickly. You would break your neck if you hazarded a leap from the beast."

Pulling her wits about her in spite of her fear, Fíohra saw that her captor spoke the truth. Whatever the creature was that they were riding, it was certainly no mortal-born animal. She could feel its skin beneath her hand, and it made her shudder. Neither stone nor metal, it was cold to the touch and impossibly solid. Judging by the blur of dark forest that flew by on either side, Fíohra could see that they were moving faster than any horse could gallop, faster even than an eagle could dive. It would truly be suicide to attempt any leap to freedom. Besides, her captor held her too tightly to allow for such thoughts.

"You wonder where it is we are headed, do you not?" it asked.

Fíohra swallowed again. It clearly intended her to speak, and she feared to disobey. "Aye," she managed with some difficulty.

It answered immediately. "Take comfort, small one. You are the ransom for your father's life. We go to the mountain, to present you to my master."

"W-what…w-why…?" Terror seized her tongue a second time, and her question was stillborn.

Though it continued to speak in a disturbing, emotionless monotone, the stone servant did not reproach her. "Ask on," it said simply.

"W-what does your master w-want of me?" Fíohra managed, though her whisper was nearly swallowed by the wind.

"That is for my master to disclose. I am only a servant."

Its evasive answer was not reassuring. Nevertheless, her need to know what awaited her at the end of the strange journey mastered her fear. Fíohra spoke again. "And will I ever see my family again?"

The stone servant paused before answering. "That is for my master to disclose. I am only a servant," he repeated at last.

Fíohra bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut, hoping desperately that it was all a dream. Her captor's words extinguished even the tiny flame of hope she had kept alive in her breast, and without it, she felt as good as dead already. More than anything she wished to wake in the old hovel, with the ragged blanket clutched to her chest and the sound of her father's snores soothing her as well as any lullaby. But it was no dream. She opened her eyes again, the tears pushed away from her eyes by the sharp fingers of the wind.

"Little mortal, prepare yourself," the messenger warned, interrupting her despair. "We will arrive in moments."

It was well that it advised her, Fíohra reflected in passing. No sooner had she tightened her grip on the servant's restraining arm than the charger came to a sudden halt. Caught unawares, Fíohra would have been thrown forward against her captor's limb, knocking the breath from her lungs in the process. As it was, she rocked forward a bit but suffered no more discomfort than a bruised elbow.

They had arrived at the edge of the clearing.

Fíohra felt the servant's arm loosening around her, and for one wild moment she thought it was releasing her. But just as she was preparing to leap off the beast and run for the shelter of the trees, her captor spoke. "You must not do it, mortal. Stay and you will live; run from my master and you will die." It dismounted, leaving Fíohra unprotected on the creature's back. "The wolves of this wood have a taste for human blood," it continued. "And my master will not frighten them away again, as he did for your father."

Fíohra's plans of escape withered in her brain and she hung her head, despair closing over her once more.

The stone servant took the bridle of the enchanted beast and spoke a word to it that Fíohra could not hear. Then, in an action that took her by surprise, the messenger threw back its hood. Fíohra felt her heart sink even further in her chest as she took in its appearance. Though she could discern some human features in the moonlight, it was as unlike a human's as the creature she rode was unlike a mortal horse. It was made of stone and showed no emotion, even as it looked up at her to speak.

"Take in the taste of this forest air, small one, and drink your fill of the sight of the moon. You may not see her face again for a long time."

But Fíohra was far too lost in her panic to heed its words, wondering what it meant by 'a long time.'

Seeing that she made no move to take its advice, the stone servant—in another gesture that took its prisoner by surprise—inclined its head. "Very well. We will enter now. Do not open your eyes until I tell you, little mortal. It will not be long."

The beast below her began to move forward, towards the yawning darkness of the cave. Fíohra squeezed her eyes shut once more as they passed out from under the open sky, willing herself to be strong. _I will not cry_, she told herself. _I will not run._ _I will be brave…I will be brave…I will be brave._

It was the hardest task she had ever set for herself.


	6. Maeleachlainn

~ Chapter VI ~  
**Maeleachlainn**

* * *

Thankfully, her captor had not lied. The sounds of their passage into the cave had not gone on for more than a few minutes before Fíohra was aware of a change in the light. She dared not open her eyes, but she could sense that the dark was lessening. Also, she became aware of the strange warmth of the place, as well as its unsettling smell. But these sensory revelations were driven far from her mind by the sound of a second voice, calling to her captor. It was very like the first stone servant's voice, equally devoid of emotion and humanity. Yet it was different, too. Fíohra could not decide if it was the variation of pitch or the volume, but she had the undeniable impression that the speaker was feminine, though still of the same kind as the first.

"Is this the mortal's ransom, maeleachlainn?" the new voice said.

"It is, maeleachlainn. I am to deliver her to you to prepare her for an audience with the master."

For a moment Fíohra wondered if she had misheard, thinking it unlikely that both creatures were named Maeleachlainn. But the second continued before she could consider it further.

"Maeleachlainn, you do poorly. The human child is frightened and confused."

Still not daring to open her eyes, Fíohra felt the unnatural chill of stone hands under her arms, lifting her off the beast. For a moment she wanted to kick and fight, but her reason got a hold of her and told her to keep calm. Though cold, the servant's hands were gentle, and Fíohra felt soft sand beneath her feet as she was placed on the ground.

The feminine voice spoke again. "She has done well, maeleachlainn. She keeps her eyes closed in the face of the unknown. Perhaps we should try to comfort her." Fíohra felt an inhuman touch on her shoulder, and it was far from comforting. "You have shown courage, little mortal," the unseen voice said, the words sounding strange without the accompanying emotions that signified approval. "Lay aside your fear; we are bringing you to your palace."

For a moment, terror was superseded by bewilderment. Fíohra followed the voice of her guide, noting how the cramped echoes of their previous conversation had suddenly dissipated. It seemed they were entering a wider part of the cave. The girl desperately wanted to see what they meant by 'her palace,' but the servant's praise for her obedience strengthened her resolve to keep her eyes shut. They walked a little ways further before the give of sand beneath their feet changed into the smooth resistance of stone. There, the new servant brought them to a halt.

"You may open your eyes, brave one."

Fíohra did. And she was utterly robbed of words as the sight of the place worked its wonder on her.

The first servant did well to say that they were going to the mountain, though it might have been more precise to say that they were going _in__to_ the mountain. Before her stretched a vast cavern. Fíohra shivered in awe at its very immensity. The vaulted roof disappeared into darkness, miles above her head. But the rest of the cavern was not dark. Bowls of fire embedded in shelves in the walls cast a warm, flickering light over the lower cavern, and cold globes like stars lit the upper cavern at irregular intervals.

In the very center of the cavern, a great pillar of stone thrust its spire towards the roof. It was as wide as the entire village of Baláirdh Drún, and Fíohra lost its summit in the darkness above. She dropped her gaze to keep from getting dizzy. An immense arched doorway barred by a door of dead-black wood stood silent at the base of the pillar. Curious, Fíohra gave it a closer look. At the apex of the doorway there was carved into the pillar the figure of a great bird, its wings stretched protectively over the passage it guarded. Lights hanging from niches in the pillar cast a dull bronze glow over the carving, making it seem almost alive.

"The Túráthú, child," the servant explained, seeing her gaze. "It is the heart of the mountain."

Fíohra tore her eyes from the magnificence of the pillar and looked for the first time at the second servant, whose stony hand had been guiding her since they entered the cavern. It was draped in a plain white robe of coarse linen, and the carven lines of its face seemed softer than those of the first servant, though still without expression. The white-robed servant had brought Fíohra and her companions out into what seemed to be a stone porch, carved into the wall of the main cavern. To the left and right of the antechamber, two doorways opened into darkness.

She looked down. As she had noticed before, the floor was smooth; they were standing on polished pavement. It was of the same color as the stone pillar, though here she could see it was veined with gleams of gold and green. Yet as beautiful as the floor was, both it and the walls were unadorned. Fíohra wondered what sort of place it was, and what function it served—someplace at once so magnificent and so plain.

But more importantly, she wondered what sort of Creature it was that lived there, and what it wanted with her.

To Fíohra's surprise, however, her previous fear had largely been swallowed by wonder. Fear itself seemed somehow insignificant before the grandeur and the sheer size of the mountain cavern. Fíohra felt as if the very stone would laugh at her fear and ask, if it could speak, what account should it give to the feelings of a young and ignorant girl such as she? She was nothing to the splendor of the vaulting stone, the very living rock. Fíohra swallowed, ashamed of herself. It would do no good for her to be frightened, she decided. Her resolve hardened and she repeated her earlier commitment. _I _will_ be brave, _she thought. _I will._

The white-robed servant saw the wonder in its charge's face and removed its hand. "What do you see, little one?" it asked.

Fíohra took a few moments to find her voice, pulling herself out of her reverie. "I…I see the mountain," she said at last.

The black-cloaked servant with the stone beast spoke behind her, addressing its fellow. "She sees well, maeleachlainn." It turned to Fíohra. "This is Drún, mortal, as none of your kind have seen for many millennia."

"Why…why am I here?" she asked.

"That is for our master to tell you, little one," the white-robed one said, replacing a hand on Fíohra's arm. The girl willed herself not to shiver. "And we must proceed. I am to show you to your chambers."

Once again, puzzlement overtopped anxiety. As her guide led her towards the left-hand door, she voiced her confusion. "I…could you tell me…?"

"Ask without fear," the servant encouraged her.

"What do you mean by _my_ chambers and _my_ palace? I don't understand."

To her surprise, her guide paused at the dark threshold and turned to her. The stone eyes without expression searched her face, thoroughly unnerving her. Fíohra found she could not hold their gaze and she dropped her own to the floor. It took a moment for the servant to answer, as if it was considering its words. "Little mortal, you have ransomed your father at the cost of your life," it said at last, and Fíohra felt her blood run cold. But her guide continued. "You live here now. You belong to the mountain. You will not be allowed to return to the world outside of Drún."

A tear slid past Fíohra's downcast lids and dropped to the polished stone floor. It was all she could do to speak. "N-never…_never_ again?"

"No. What is this rain from your face, small one?" The emotionless voice had hardly a trace of the proper inquisitive intonation, and it took Fíohra a moment to realize the servant had asked her a question. She wiped the tears from her cheeks.

"It…it's called crying," she informed the servant, disheartened with both the loss of hope for return and the confirmation of her companion's inhumanity.

The female servant reached into the dark doorway and drew back its hand, clutching an unlit stone torch. It touched the tip of the torch with its other hand and said something Fíohra did not understand. Then, in an action that rather astonished its mortal ward, the servant swung the article in a wide arc. Pale gold fire burst from the end of the torch and settled in a cheery ball of flame, bathing the two in its magical light. The servant steadied it as it swung perpendicular to the floor and motioned for Fíohra to follow. "What does this crying signify?" it asked as it stepped through the doorway. Fíohra saw a winding staircase inside, and she looked over her shoulder. The black-cloaked servant and the stone beast had disappeared.

"Where did they go?" she asked, surprised in spite of herself.

"The maeleachlainn has taken the carraiglas away. It is required elsewhere." Fíohra wondered later if carraiglas was the name of that particular beast or the name of its kind. But she was unable to ask her guide, as the steep ascent had thoroughly winded her. Using her hands as well as her feet, she climbed after the stone servant in silence for what seemed like hours. At long last, the winding stairs straightened and Fíohra was able to see beyond the bulk of her guide into the space ahead.

They had climbed to the doorway of a great portico, its stony balustrade overlooking the open air of the central cavern. More stone torches lined the walls, their golden light creating the illusion of a late evening sun shining in the underground hall. But the servant did not linger, and Fíohra was not allowed to absorb the sight. She followed her guide across the portico and into another darkened doorway, though this had no stairs. Instead, it cut through the wall of rock and led to another portico, very like the first. Again, the pair did not linger. Fíohra followed the servant through yet another dark hallway leading to another portico, and then another, and then yet another. She thought it would never end.

Then, just as she was about to ask for a rest, her guide took an unexpected turn, taking her down the length of a portico instead of across it. At the far end was a doorway, but this was different from the others. It was wider, for one thing, and taller—even the enormous servant could walk through it without ducking. But also unlike the previous doorways, this one had a real door. The dark wood reflected none of the torchlight, and strange characters were worked on it and above it, cut directly into the stone of the wall. Fíohra could not read them, but they made her shiver. There was power in the words they formed.

Her guide stopped at the door and spoke. "This is the door that leads to your chambers, little one. It is strong and well guarded. You need not fear undesired guests." Fíohra wondered if she would have to fear them elsewhere, but she said nothing as the servant continued. "I may not pass without your blessing," it continued to explain. "If you have need of my assistance, you must first invite me inside."

"Can you open it?" Fíohra asked.

"No. But you have only to command it and it will open for you." Her guide lifted the torch higher to allow its light to fall on the full length of the runed door. "Tell it to open, small one."

Fíohra swallowed. Her voice, when she managed to untangle it from the lump in her throat, was hoarse and hardly authoritative. "Open," she tried, unsure whether or not she should add a 'please' at the end. But to her surprise, the door swung in smoothly on its oiled hinges. More golden light flowed from the staircase inside.

"Enter, child."


	7. Maelé

~ Chapter VII ~  
**Maelé**

* * *

Hesitant, Fíohra took a step forward. She looked to her guide, who nodded once. Gathering her courage, she took another and crossed the threshold. Expecting some sort of energy to wash over her, she was surprised to feel nothing of the kind. There was only the cheery light and the crackling of the torches. A short staircase stretched before her, and Fíohra could see a little of the room to which it led. Suddenly frightened of being left alone, she turned to the servant who waited outside. "Will you come with me?"

"I cannot enter of my own will," it explained again. "You must invite me."

Fíohra frowned, hoping there was not a magical formula for the invitation. She touched the door. "I…I invite you?"

The stone servant inclined its head. "Thank you, little one." It crossed the threshold in one stride and stood before Fíohra as the door shut of its own accord. With one hand the servant motioned for Fíohra to mount the stairs. "I will follow you."

Surprised and a little unnerved at the reversal of roles, Fíohra climbed the stairs. But concern over her sudden assignment of authority vanished as she stepped into the torchlight of her room. The breath was snatched from her lungs for the second time since she had entered the mountain, and it was with wonder again that her poverty-bred eyes took in the sight of the chamber before her.

A wealthy young woman would not have shared Fíohra's awe. But after growing up in the single room of Morogh's hovel, the stone chamber seemed a palace unto itself. The walls and ceilings were high and unadorned, but the stone floors were polished and spread with sumptuous carpets, the like of which Fíohra had never seen before. As thick as forest moss and as fine as a spider's web, the girl felt a sudden desire to throw her exhausted body to the mercy of their woven embrace. In the presence of the solemn servant, however, she felt a need to maintain some dignity. She continued to explore the room.

A stone screen separated the carpeted area from the place Fíohra assumed was the bedchamber, though she saw no bed. There was instead a thick pile of furs in a corner. A rough wooden wardrobe leaned against the screen, and it too was covered with words she could not understand. Fíohra gingerly ran a hand over the bronze drawerknobs, and she felt a shiver run up her arm. The wardrobe, like the door, had power in it. She pulled her hand away and continued.

A doorway in the corner led to a smaller room. Stepping inside, Fíohra coughed in surprise. The room was filled with steam and smelled faintly of rotten eggs. Backing up to escape the odor, Fíohra ran into the servant. It had followed her inside.

"Forgive me, child," it said. "You do not find this to your taste?"

Again, it took Fíohra a moment to realize her companion was asking a question. "What is it?" she said in answer, withdrawing reluctantly back into the cloud of steam.

"Your bath, little mortal."

"Why does it smell?"

"The hot water is brought from the depths below. It smells of sulphur. Pay it no mind and you will soon find that you are unable to smell it."

Fíohra waved the clouds away with one hand in an effort to see the source of both the steam and the stench. To her delight, the swirling mist parted to reveal a very wide, very still and very clear pool of water, its walls and floors lined with pale marble tiles. She could feel the heat on her face, and the prospect of washing soon banished her disgust with the sulphur-smell. Unable to spare their cooking fire long enough to heat the necessary quantity of water, Fíohra and her family had only ever bathed in the stream that ran along the edge of the village. At the memory, she shivered. That water was always icy cold. But now she had access to a _real_ bath, a warm bath…

"Do you desire to sleep?" The servant's inquiry interrupted her pleasant musings, the first she had had since the arrival of the Creature's messenger at her father's doorstep. Fíohra frowned, but her companion continued. "It is now very early in the morning. My master has not required your presence until the sun sets this night, and it would be wise to rest if you can."

At the mention of the servant's mysterious master, Fíohra felt her stomach twist and her heart grow cold. Though his servants seemed kind, she still had no desire to meet the Creature that had torn her from her family and imprisoned her beneath the earth. Yet there appeared to be little choice left; she would meet him whether she wished it or not, just as she would remain in the mountain whether she wished it or not. At the moment, taking the stone servant's advice looked to be the best—and only—option.

"Aye, I'll sleep," she said at last, resigned. Following the servant's gesture, Fíohra returned to the bedchamber and threw herself on the furs. _Forget dignity,_ she thought with tears in her eyes. _I don't care anymore._

"You are wise, little one," said her inhuman companion, unperturbed with the girl's impropriety. "Is it your wish that I wake you and help you dress later this day?"

Fíohra rolled to stare at the ceiling. "Aye," she murmured.

"Very well, child. Then I will bid you a good night." The servant inclined its head, and Fíohra watched out of the corner of her eye as it moved towards the door. But, to her astonishment, it did not descend the stairs. Rather, it walked straight into the wall. Fíohra sat up, mouth open, eyes wide. The servant had disappeared—swallowed, it seemed, by the stone.

"Wait!" she cried without thinking. "_Wait_!"

An instant later there came a knock at the door. Leaping to her feet, Fíohra ran to the head of the stairs. The second knock reverberated through the wood and sent the girl's heart pounding. She bit her lip and hoped it _was_ the servant knocking; the unknown alternative set her knees quaking.

"Enter…?" she said at last.

The door swung open without a sound. To Fíohra's great relief, it was the servant. Its expressionless face gave no hint as to its thoughts at her sudden call, but it entered dutifully and stood before the girl as if awaiting orders. When Fíohra said nothing, it bowed.

"What do you require, little one?"

"I…I want to know how you did that," Fíohra said in a rush, realizing too late how foolish she sounded.

But the servant did not mention her folly. "I am made of the rock of the mountain, child. To return to it is no hard thing."

"Then why didn't you come in that way?"

Raising the torch in its hand, it indicated the walls to either side of them. Fíohra looked and noticed the faint letters carved in the stone. "The room is entirely defended. I can exit through the walls, but entrance must be made by the door and the invitation of the occupant," the servant explained.

"Oh." There didn't seem to be much to say in response.

"I will leave you now, young one. Good night," it said again.

But once more, Fíohra stopped it. "Wait! What if I need you?"

"You have only to say 'come, maeleachlainn,' and I or one of my fellow maeleachlainn will come to assist you."

"But what if I want _you_?" Fíohra pressed.

It took a minute for the servant to make sense of the request. If an emotion could have been expressed in that stony face at the moment, it would likely have been surprise. "For what purpose could I serve you that any other could not?" it said at last.

Fíohra let her gaze fall to the floor. "I don't know." She stopped herself short of saying 'a familiar face,' as it seemed the graven faces of the serving creatures were fairly indistinguishable. Instead, she tried a new question. "What is your name?"

"Name?" It paused, as if the word was a curious one. "I am one of the maeleachlainn, little mortal. I am the servant of the master of the mountain."

Fíohra shook her head, understanding at last the title that had puzzled her from the beginning. Maeleachlainn was their name for all servants, and their address to one another. Apparently they had no names. "If I want to call you, and you specifically, what should I say?" Fíohra asked, unwilling to lose her strange companion to anonymity.

Again, it took the maeleachlainn a moment or two to process the novelty of her request. When it spoke, the words came slowly. "I think…if you should wish to summon me particularly…you may call for the maeleachlainn…Maelé."

"Maelé," Fíohra repeated carefully, fixing the name in her memory. "Thank you, Maelé."

Maelé bowed. "Now I will leave you, small one. Good night," it said a third time. "I will awaken you at the noon hour." With that assurance, Maelé walked into the wall and disappeared, leaving Fíohra alone in the silence and firelight of the warded room, with only her exhaustion and her growing fear for company.

Though the furs were the most comfortable thing Fíohra had ever felt, she could not sleep well. It was not only the light that bothered her, though the steady and disorienting glow from the torches made it difficult to keep her eyes shut. It was apprehension for the evening to come that consumed her thoughts and chased rest from her mind. Maelé had said that the master did not require her presence until sunset. She wondered how it was that he and his maeleachlainn determined the time, locked underground as they were.

Fíohra wondered too what sort of creature their master was—though she tried to think of that as little as possible. Her father had described the voice in the cave as enormous, and despite her attempts at subduing her imagination, Fíohra could not help but picture a great beast, ravening in tooth and claw and thirsty for blood. Her blood.

But she refused to let that image subdue her courage. Maelé had said she would be living in the mountain for a long time; in that case, it seemed unlikely that its master had ordered her for his supper. Willing away her foreboding, Fíohra stubbornly shut her eyes and cast herself into sleep.


	8. Stone and Soap

~ Chapter VIII ~  
**Stone and Soap**

* * *

She awoke to the touch of stone on her shoulder. "It is noon, small one." Maelé's dry voice cut through the curtain of unconsciousness.

"What?" she mumbled.

"You requested that I wake you at noon. It is noon. I am waking you," the maeleachlainn explained.

Fíohra sat up, dazed. It took her a moment to reconcile her memories to the strange surroundings. With a frown she looked around. The hovel…she should have woken up in the hovel, next to Padraigin. But the face near hers was not her sister's. It was wrong somehow, too cold and too…

In a flash she remembered everything that had befallen her through the night. Recoiling from the stone servant, Fíohra threw herself back onto the furs, hoping they might disguise the sound of her weeping.

Maelé was unmoved. It touched her shoulder again. "Little one, you must rise. The master has requested much of you before your audience with him."

Fíohra did not listen, only pushed herself deeper into the furs and into her despair.

"Are you ill?" Maelé inquired after a minute of silence. Still Fíohra said nothing. Maelé withdrew its hand and stood above the human girl, contemplating the display of emotion it could not comprehend. Then, not knowing what else to do, it thrust the heel of its hand in the direction of its charge and spoke a single word in a language Fíohra did not understand.

At once Fíohra felt something like fiery fingers wrench her lips open and seize the muscles of her throat. Before she knew what she was doing, the words tumbled from her mouth.

"Of course I'm not ill! I miss my father! I miss my sister! I want to go home…I'm frightened of this place. I don't even know why I'm wanted. Please, just let me go home! Can't you understand? _You_ frighten me! Your talk of your master frightens me! Everything frightens me! I'm not even a grown woman yet…I want to _live_. I want to see humans again. I don't want to belong to the mountain! I want…I'm not…" Her words stumbled into silence as the spell wore off. Horrified, Fíohra looked up at the stone servant and touched her lips. "How did…what did you do to me?" she asked at last in an undertone.

Maelé bowed. "Forgive me, child. I did not know what else to do. I feared something was wrong." It paused. "Why did you not answer me?"

Fíohra sighed as the hopelessness of the situation closed over her. "I suppose you don't understand what it means to feel sadness, aye?"

The stone head inclined in assent. "You are right; I do not."

The girl sat up again. As bizarre and frightening as it was, whatever Maelé had done had succeeded in its goal. With the torrent of words released from her, Fíohra also felt a little of her despair go with it. Determination welled up in her to face the day bravely, no matter what unknown terrors lay in wait for her. An image of her father standing before the pack of wolves flashed across her mind, and that determination hardened into a resolution. _Father faced the forest for Padra and I, and he did all he could to save me,_ she told herself. _I can show that courage here. I can show these creatures and their master whose daughter I am. I won't fail him._

Maelé spoke again, unaware of her charge's change of heart. "Is that what sadness looks like then, small one?"

"Aye. I suppose." She narrowed her eyes. "But you haven't answered my question. What did you do to me to make me speak like that?"

The stone servant extended her hand to Fíohra to help her rise. "I told you to speak in the Language from which language was born." Maelé bowed as Fíohra stood, which the girl took to be another apology. "It is not customary to use words of such power on a mortal, but as I said, I did not know what else to do."

Remembering the first maeleachlainn's gesture that incapacitated her father, Fíohra furrowed her brow. "Do you mean…you're a sorceress, Maelé?"

Maelé edged her charge towards the bath. "No. It is no magic. I simply spoke the truth. My master will explain; I have not the proper knowledge of your kind to make you understand. What little I do know I use only to perform my duties."

"And what would those be?" Fíohra asked as they plunged into the steam of the tiled room, her nose wrinkling at the sulphurous smell.

Maelé stopped and turned, motioning to the pool. "Among many other things, serving you. If you would care to undress, I will dispose of your clothes and prepare for you a suitable wardrobe."

Fíohra looked down. Her dress was filthy, tattered and worn beyond belief, but it was also the only dress she owned. She had had it for many years, ignoring the hemline when she had grown too tall to let it out anymore. It was a part of her, and one of the last physical things she had tying her to her life in Baláirdh Drún. If the stone servant had asked her to remove her arm, it couldn't have been harder to part with.

"I don't want to lose this," she said, gathering the skirt in her two balled fists. "It's my only dress."

Instead of arguing, Maelé simply nodded. "Very well. I will wash it and return it to you when it is clean." The stone eyes studied the stained fabric and Maelé added in a drier voice than usual, "You may not see it for a while."

But Fíohra didn't mind. "A'right." With a few tugs the dress was pulled off her and tossed over Maelé's outstretched arm. "And the rest?" she asked, reddening a little. The servant only nodded gravely. With a sigh, Fíohra stepped out of her undershift and handed it over as well. She stood naked by the side of the bath, arms crossed, as Maelé bowed and backed out of the cloud of steam. When the servant was gone, Fíohra turned to the pool.

A sudden wave of panic washed over her as she stared at the water. Though deep enough for washing, the stream outside of Baláirdh Drún had never been deep enough for swimming; consequently, neither Padraigin nor Fíohra had ever learnt. But her panic ebbed as she continued to study the bath. It looked no deeper than her shoulders, and her bare skin would welcome its warmth. Tentatively, Fíohra lowered herself to the edge of the pool and dipped her feet in the water.

After a moment, the rest of her followed. It was more wonderful than she had even dared to dream. The water came no further than her neck, and she was quite able to reach the bottom. After a minute or two even the sulphur smell ceased to be an annoyance. Seventeen years of poverty, dirt and hunger slipped away beneath the surface of the warm water and vanished, as though they had never been. Fíohra even dared to hold her breath and duck beneath the surface for a few seconds to wet her hair. When she returned to the surface, Maelé was waiting.

"You may use this, child. It will help you to wash." It placed a bottle on the side of the pool, its leather surface rubbed to a dull shine. Fíohra's nose twitched.

"What is it?" she asked.

"It is a preparation of oil and ashes that the maeleachlainn use for cleansing."

"It's soap?" Fíohra clarified.

"Yes."

The girl stretched out her hand to take the bottle. She sniffed again. A strange smell hung about the soap, something Fíohra couldn't identify. It was sharp and made her hair stand on end, but it wasn't entirely unpleasant. It reminded her of the days in early spring, when she and her sister would follow their father as far as they dared into the forest. The brisk air had carried promises of warmth to come, and Fíohra had felt only excitement as she and Padraigin tread the invisible boundaries set by the villagers of Baláirdh Drún. Danger still lurked in the shadows of the forest, but she had only felt exultation in the facing of that danger.

The scent of the soap had brought back a little of that same feeling. Fíohra uncorked the bottle with a strange mixture of eagerness and apprehension. She tipped it upwards and poured a little of the contents into her cupped palm. A soft, silvery-gray liquid ran into her hand, and she felt shivers run down her spine. The thought flashed across her mind that more than oil and ashes had gone into the substance, and she looked for more of the strange words inscribed on the bottle. But there were none.

With a sigh, Fíohra replaced the leather container at the edge of the pool and worked the soap through her hair. It was marvelously refreshing, soothing away the many days' worth of soot and grease from her scalp. She ducked underwater again to rinse it clean. When she surfaced, Maelé was waiting with a length of linen, apparently for drying. Her bath was done.

Easing herself onto the slippery tiles, Fíohra took the offered fabric as quickly as she could, unable to hide the blush that spread across her cheeks. It wasn't that she felt embarrassed in the presence of the stone servant, not exactly. Merely…uneasy. But her feelings proved to make no difference to Maelé. With its unchanging expression, it helped Fíohra to her feet and ushered her to the bedroom, placing her in front of the wardrobe. At the sight of the words carved into the wood, a thought started in Fíohra's mind.

"How did you get in here, Maelé?" she asked.

"You requested that I wake you," it reminded Fíohra. "It was an invitation, however delayed."

"Ah," Fíohra said, pursing her lips. "I understand." _And I'll have to keep that in mind,_ she thought. _A slipped word could let something in. _She shivered a little, her wet body uncomfortable in the air outside the steaming bath. _Whatever it is that I'm supposed to be protected against in here._ But her ominous musings were interrupted by Maelé's directions. The servant was showing her the uses of the wardrobe.

"As I presume you have seen, this article has certain power, just as your door has. It will bring you what you need, upon request and within reason. Use it carefully and it will serve you well."

"It'll bring anything I need?" Fíohra said, amazed.

"Anything within reason," Maelé repeated. "I have prepared it to furnish you with suitable clothes for today, and when you are finished dressing I will instruct you to use it to bring your afternoon meal."

Fíohra nodded and stepped closer. "Show me," she said.

The stone servant pressed a hand between the two bronze knobs. "Clothes," it said simply, and then removed its hand. Fíohra frowned, expecting more.

"That's it?"

"Yes. Open it and see."


	9. Mount Drún

~ Chapter IX ~  
**Mount Drún **

* * *

Shrugging, the girl obeyed. Stretching her hand to the knobs, she tugged the doors open, preparing herself for a flood of fabric. But she was quite taken aback at the sight of the inside of the wardrobe. On the worn wooden floor was a small pile of folded clothes, next to a pair of leather boots. A wide belt lay across the pile, its bronze buckle gleaming in the dull light of the torches. Besides these articles, the inside of the wardrobe was bare.

Maelé saw her hesitation and urged her forward. "Take them, child. They will fit you well." Still tentative, Fíohra reached in and took up the offered outfit. Upon her withdrawal, the wardrobe doors snapped shut, surprising her enough to drop the clothes. Maelé bent to pick them up. "Yes, it is wise to remove the articles quickly. The wardrobe will not wait long."

"I can see that," she muttered, holding up the clothes offered her by the servant. She frowned. "Am I supposed to wear this?" The wardrobe had provided her not with the dress she was expecting, but rather with a pair of deerskin leggings and a long blue tunic. A vest with pockets of many sizes completed the outfit, along with the belt and boots. It was an ensemble unlike anything Fíohra had ever seen before—especially on a woman.

"I see there was something else you had in mind, small one. Am I correct?"

"Aye. These are…these are _boys'_ clothes," she said in a rush, fearing to offend the provider of the unsuitable clothes. "Not that they're not…nice," she thought it wise to add, fearing the wardrobe had taken offense anyway.

"And they will serve you far better in the mountain than the clothes of your village, little mortal. Try them on," Maelé ordered. Reluctant but knowing better than to refuse, Fíohra obeyed, slipping out of the linen towel and into the new clothes as quickly as she could. To her surprise, the leggings and tunic were more comfortable than she had imagined. _Besides,_ she thought with a twinge of sadness, _it's not as if anyone from home will see me and laugh._ When she was finished, Maelé brought her to the wardrobe again. "There is yet one thing you need." The servant placed its hand on the doors again. "Dagger," it said. Fíohra started and stared at Maelé with disbelieving eyes.

"Dagger?" she repeated. "Why ever would I need a dagger?" The fear that she had pushed deep within her earlier began to bubble to the surface, and she worked hard to stay calm.

"The master will tell you. Open it," Maelé instructed once again.

Her hand was even slower to obey this time, but Fíohra forgot her apprehension for a moment as the doors swung open. There, lying in the center of the wardrobe, a bright dagger lay wrapped in its black leather sheath. Words worked into the cloth glimmered faintly, sending more shivers up Fíohra's spine. She reached out and took the weapon, unable to keep from admiring the beauty of the bronze wire-work on the hilt. A cloudy blue stone embedded in the hilt reflected the torchlight like a dull star, and Fíohra felt suddenly more confident as she threaded the sheath through her belt. It was far too lovely a thing to fear.

"Now you are attired," Maelé announced. "But you must be hungry."

"Aye," Fíohra agreed, her stomach rumbling in assent.

"Then do as I did and summon your meal."

Fíohra frowned. "What…ah, what do I say?"

"Food. Or if you wish, something more specific. You may begin that way, by instructing it. But later it will be best to let the wardrobe choose for you. It will have made your acquaintance by then, and it may not like to be ordered about." Fíohra looked troubled and Maelé strove to clarify. "It is a particular item, this wardrobe. Tricksome in a way that makes it nearly human." The servant looked down at its charge. "You may soon grow to understand it better than I."

A little reassured, Fíohra placed her hand in the place Maelé had shown her. "Porridge," she said at last, after contemplating the needs of her empty stomach. "And bread." There was no sound or any other indication that the summoning had taken place, but after a moment Maelé motioned for her to open the doors. Fíohra did so and found, to her delight, a steaming bowl of porridge and a loaf of current bread. She took the items with a silent word of gratitude towards the unseen providers of her breakfast. Or lunch, she realized with a start. _It must be long after noon by now, _Fíohra thought.

The familiar stab of panic turned her stomach, but she willed it away with a ferocious bite of current bread. _I will face tonight without fear,_ she told herself as she ate, one hand on the hilt of her dagger. _I will not be a coward._

Upon the completion of her meal and much to Fíohra's frustration, Maelé summoned various cosmetic items from the wardrobe and—rather painfully—fixed the girl's hair. Unused to the unforgiving tines of the ivory comb, Fíohra had to bite her lip to keep from crying out in pain as the servant untangled the snarls in her wet hair. Maelé then twisted the damp locks into a braid and pinned it to sit on the nape of Fíohra's neck.

Once fastened, however, Fíohra could not help but admit that she liked the freedom the braid allowed. She had hardly ever bothered to order her hair before, preferring it long, unkempt and often in her eyes. But this was much better. She even managed to thank Maelé, though her scalp still smarted.

Maelé bowed and nodded to the stairs. "Indeed, small one. But now we must go; there is still much for you to see before this evening."

~o~

The stone servant spoke truly. For hours it walked with Fíohra through the innumerable passages, hallways and tunnels of the great cavern. Yet to the girl's surprise, they never set foot on the floor of the open space surrounding the central pillar. When she asked her guide the reason for their route, Maelé replied only that it was being prepared for her audience that evening. Her curiosity unsatisfied, Fíohra nevertheless set it aside in the growing pile of questions in her mind, saving it for the later confrontation with the orchestrator of her new life. She only hoped—for both their sakes—that he had good answers.

Fíohra found their exploration of the mountain labyrinth a fitting distraction, however, and after a while she even caught herself enjoying it. It took the entire afternoon, but gradually a picture of her new home began to draw itself in Fíohra's head. When she closed her eyes, the picture grew tangible.

In the center was the mighty pillar, a fortress unto itself. Surrounding it was the flat and unbroken floor of the cavern, stretching in all directions for what would have been many bowshots. Every few hundred paces, a doorway opened into the rock of the mountain, leading up into rooms, halls, porches, balconies and porticos, part of which were Fíohra's chambers. It was truly a vast place. Before long Fíohra found herself thinking of it in Maelé's terms—not a cave or cavern, but rather a splendid palace.

She took care to memorize the paths to places of interest, of which there were many. Maelé first led her charge up many flights of stairs until—panting and exhausted—they reached a great Balcony. Near the roof of the cavern, the Balcony overlooked the pillar, the central court and much of the surrounding mountain. Fíohra stepped up to the stone balustrade with shaking hands and surveyed the scene with bated breath; its sheer height made her dizzy. But it was also a spectacular view. There Maelé helped her understand the structure of her new home, pointing out the dark patches on the far wall that Fíohra had mistaken as shadows. They were windows, the servant explained, each signifying a great maze of rooms and chambers dug deeper in the rock of the mountain beyond. As they began the long descent, Fíohra had the sense to ask if the other rooms were occupied.

"The maeleachlainn care for them," was Maelé's response.

"Then I'm the only…guest?" Fíohra asked, her momentary bubble of hope bursting.

In answer, Maelé turned to look her charge in the eye. "Yes, young one. You are the only mortal within the halls of Drún."

Fíohra turned away, feeling she knew not what. Her hope had been a fool's hope, and she shook her head in self-reproach as she continued to follow her guide.

Maelé led her through great tapestried halls, the cloth hangings depicting events strange and ancient in brilliant colors. Other rooms held weapons and armor, as bright and sharp as the day they were made. Still others were as bare as the central court, with only a wooden chair or an old desk standing in the corner. They passed quickly through these empty rooms; for, as Fíohra soon learned, there was much more to see.

From the heights of the Balcony they passed to the lower levels, only a few above the floor of the cavern. There Maelé brought Fíohra to the stables of the carraiglas, the great horse-like beasts that had delivered her to the mountain just that morning. Fíohra watched in wonder and not a little fear as Maelé opened a stall and led one of the creatures out. The stone fingers stroked the stone muzzle with a surprising degree of familiarity.

"What is it?' Fíohra asked as Maelé pushed the wiry forelock from the creature's broad forehead.

"The spirit of a mortal horse with the strength of stone in its bones and sinews. The maeleachlainn brought you here on a carraiglas, did it not?"

"Aye." The girl could not help but shudder at the memory, and she tried to imagine what it would be like to ride one of the beasts without the panic that had plagued her earlier. It had been fast, she remembered, faster than any flesh-and-blood creature could run. If she had not been so terrified, it might have even been exhilarating.

"You will learn to ride, I think," Maelé said after a few moments.

"What?"

"Yes. You may find need of their speed one day. They are useful beasts, though their manners are much like those of the wardrobe. Capricious and headstrong." Maelé studied its young charge. "But you may prove to have spirit enough to bend one to your command, small though you are. The master will decide," the servant said, leading the carraiglas back into its iron-sheathed stall. Fíohra felt her heart flip-flop in her chest at the thought, though whether it was from fear or from excitement she could not tell. She waited in silence for Maelé to come out and continue their explorations, aware once more of the fast-approaching evening and her audience with the master.


	10. Master of the Mountain

~ Chapter X ~**  
Master of the Mountain **

* * *

It came more quickly than Fíohra had expected. Though she knew hours had passed, it still felt like the afternoon when Maelé returned with her to her chambers to prepare for the evening. Wondering again how the stone servant knew of the sun's position while enclosed in the belly of the mountain, Fíohra nevertheless submitted to Maelé's comb a second time, as well as the summoning of a new tunic and vest. She donned the articles without a word, tossing the old ones to Maelé for 'disposal,' or whatever it was she planned to do with them. Within minutes she was ready—physically if not mentally. Continuing in her thoughtful silence, Fíohra followed Maelé to the stairs and descended.

The door Maelé exited brought the pair of them out onto the broad expanse of the cavern floor. But Fíohra was quite astonished as she saw that they were not alone. Quite far from them, at the base of the great pillar, a table had been set up on a carpet. A single chair sat next to the table. And standing around the table in ranks, a veritable army of stone servants awaited Fíohra's approach.

The girl could hardly believe her eyes until her guide led her closer; then there could be no doubt. Like Maelé, the maeleachlainn were dressed in coarse white linen robes. Their faces were expressionless, though each bowed its head at Fíohra's passing. Unsure of how to respond, she merely nodded back, eager to sit and escape the acknowledgment of the inhuman creatures. When she did reach the chair, a male maeleachlainn stepped forward from the ranks of is fellows and presented itself with a bow.

"Guest of my master, we of the maeleachlainn are here to serve you," it said. "Ask what you will of us and we will provide it. Our master will present himself presently." With another bow it stepped back, leaving Fíohra to contemplate the spread before her. Whether it was by magic or by the hands of the servants, the table had been laden with heavy silver dishes, each containing a delicacy of the kind Fíohra had never even dreamed. The porridge and current bread many hours behind her, Fíohra felt her stomach rumble. But she felt constrained to wait for the master of the mountain to make his appearance.

And so, for many minutes, the food before her went untasted. Nearly a quarter of an hour had passed before Fíohra thought to ask one of the servants what was wrong; but at the look of their set and silent faces, she lost her courage. Even Maelé had disappeared into the ranks of its fellow maeleachlainn. Fíohra bit her lip and studied the tracery on the empty plate before her.

Another quarter hour passed. The silence and strangeness of the mountain hall grew unbearable.

At long last, Fíohra threw her hands up and reached for the nearest platter.

"AH!" thundered an unmistakable voice. "What mortal impatience!"

Fíohra nearly dropped the ladle she had lifted.

The maeleachlainn bowed to the invisible speaker as he continued. "Are you the goat-slayer's daughter, little mortal?" the master asked.

Fíohra rose from her seat, trembling but determined to present a courageous front. Unable to discover the source of the booming voice, she nevertheless followed the servants' example and bowed. "Aye, sir." she said. "I am Morogh's youngest."

"Hmm." The cavern floor seemed to reverberate with the note of his musing. "Perhaps we shall take a closer look."

Fíohra felt her heart leap into her throat. No sooner had the words left the unseen lips than the wall opposite her exploded in a flurry of wings and scales. Pulse pounding in her ears, Fíohra had to lower her head against the sudden wind. When she raised it, the master of the mountain stood before her.

Or rather, he stood in the manner of dragons, resting on all fours. For as Fíohra saw at last the form of the Creature, she knew it could be nothing but a dragon. Nearly as long as the pillar was wide, he had landed with his wings extended, the translucent skin between the bat-like claws reaching towards the roof. His hide was scaled in bronze plates, each as thick as Fíohra's hand. But Fíohra took in the sight in a second, for once she looked at his face she found she could not look away. She stared stupidly as he came closer, transfixed by the almost-human expression of amusement in his eyes. When the dragon was within a dozen yards of the table, he stopped, folded his wings and settled on his haunches, watching Fíohra. When she said nothing, he spoke again.

"Well met, daughter of Morogh."

But she was quite beyond the power of words, at least for the moment. In all her imaginings, from the most terrible to the most bizarre, Fíohra had never dreamed that a _dragon_ had brought her to the mountain. Observing her silence, the dragon extended its foreclaws and stretched, the sound of his scales against the stone unnaturally loud in the silence of the cavern. Then, settling his enormous armored head on the floor, he met Fíohra's eye and bared his teeth.

Fíohra took a step backwards.

A deep rumbling sound stirred in the belly of the dragon, growing louder and more resonant as it rose in his throat. At last, in what could only have been called ferocious mirth, the master of the mountain laughed. "_Ah!_ You recoil, human child," he said at last, the laughter fading into a dragonish smile that was not at all reassuring. "Am I really so frightening, daughter of Morogh?" he asked.

She had to swallow several times before answering, and even then her voice was nowhere near as brave as she'd hoped. "Aye, sir," Fíohra said at last.

"You have not eaten," he observed in response.

"I…I thought I should wait," she stammered, wondering at once if she was supposed to have started.

"But not long enough?" he added, eyeing the ladle in her hand. Fíohra reddened.

"Y-you weren't…you hadn't come."

The booming chuckle echoed through the cavern again. "I was here long before my servant escorted you in, little one." The dragon extended a single claw and tapped the stone of the floor. The sound sent shivers crawling up Fíohra's skin. "Do you trust me, mortal?" he asked suddenly.

For a moment, Fíohra wondered if it would be right to lie. Nothing in her held any faith in the master of the mountain, but she quailed at the thought of saying so. The claws and jaws of the great beast were far too near. But then, for the same reasons, she also feared lying to him. Unsure of what to do, she chose a third option.

"I don't know, sir. I don't know _you_."

The dragon narrowed his eyes and withdrew his claw. "A wise answer, child."

Fíohra's stomach chose just that time to rumble loudly. She reddened and studied her toes, embarrassed and anxious. His response had not been as comforting as it sounded, for it reminded her of all the things of which she was ignorant. Truly, she knew nothing of her host or his intentions. The realization frightened her into silence.

The master of the mountain drew himself up and motioned with his chin for Fíohra to sit. "Eat, small one. You must not let me and my servants forget that you need food where we do not."

Hesitant, she obeyed, though she was unable to keep her attention on her food for long. The silent ranks of maeleachlainn and the unwavering stare of the great dragon thoroughly unnerved her. Her gaze kept drifting upwards, towards the unblinking eyes the size of dinner plates that watched her every bite. But at last, when her first hunger pains had been seen to, she laid down her fork and stood. It took every ounce of courage she had to open her mouth and speak.

"Sir, I would like to know what's going to happen to me now," Fíohra said, her heart pounding in her chest.

The dragon settled his head again on the floor so that he was level with Fíohra's gaze. "And well you should, daughter of Morogh," he replied. "But that is difficult to answer."

"Why?"

"Because there is much yet to be determined in your future, little mortal. But come," he said, moving his head to the side, "I see you have many more questions. They are bursting in your heart like dragonfire; we must let them out or watch them consume you. Ask without fear, small one. I will answer as best I can."

Fíohra sighed silently in relief. Whether he expected it of her or he could see it in her face, her questions had indeed burned in her mind and heart since the night before. Answers—any answers—would go far to assuage her fear of the unknown that surrounded her. Drawing in a deep breath, she began with the question in the forefront of her mind.

"Who are you?"

The dragon smiled toothily. "I am many things, mortal. I am something that is no longer. I am something that might yet be again. I am a servant and I am a master. I am a keeper of secrets and a watcher of words. I am a bright light brought into a dark place, and I burn with the flame that ignited the stars. I am the Guardian of the mountain."

Fíohra tried another question. "What's your _name_?"

"I have many names, daughter of Morogh. Some are more true and some are less true. Some have been lost; some will be forgotten; some have not yet been discovered, and some will never be known but by the One who gave them. I am called Drún, and that is a truer name than most. But I am also Cathoaireth'ail, just as I am Daire-Eanruig-is-Ail-Edannathair."

The creature watched the girl's face as he pronounced the least of his names. She stared in wonder, but it was clear she understood neither the power nor the meaning behind the words. He continued.

"Truest of my lesser names, I am Aodhfin'eth-is-Alsandair." The great eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Little mortal, I think you will one day know me best by that name. But for now, you may call me Mórdúil."

Fíohra mouthed the strange name, saying it to herself until she felt comfortable with its ancient weight. "Mórdúil," she repeated. The dragon nodded once and she looked up. "_What _are you, Mórdúil?"


	11. The Edannathair

~ Chapter XI ~**  
The Edannathair**

* * *

The creature of many names rose so suddenly, Fíohra had to steady herself on the edge of the table to keep from pitching backwards. Throwing wide his coppery wings, Mórdúil raised his head and opened his mouth. But instead of words—instead of an answer—a brilliant flame burst from his dagger-lined maw. It flared red, then white, before settling to a piercing gold, brighter and hotter than Fíohra had ever seen or felt before. Though the flames were far above her head, she could feel her face blister and her hair begin to singe with the intensity of the heat. Fíohra threw her arm up to shield her eyes. But in a second the air was dim and cool again.

She lowered her arm as Mórdúil answered. "The ancient people named me edannathair, the fire-snake." His voice fell and indignation edged his tone. "They knew not what I was—what I am. Of the cursed serpent-kind I have no part, save this form. But no matter," Mórdúil said with a shake of his head, speaking normally again. "I am what I am and cannot change. To your kind I am an edannathair."

Fíohra nodded, feeling her eyebrows for signs of loss. Thankfully they remained, though she was certain some parts of her face had been burnt by the dragonfire. "And what do you want of me, Mórdúil of the edannathair?"she asked. The named tingled on her tongue and she marveled at its power, though she could not understand it.

The dragon lowered his head to the floor once more. "You know that your father unlawfully took the life of one of my lesser creatures, do you not?" Remembering the goat, Fíohra nodded. Tears started in her eyes at the thought of Morogh, but she mastered them and waited for Mórdúil to continue. "He shed blood. There must be recompense."

Fíohra's fists balled at her sides. "It was for Padra and me!" she cried, forgetting herself in her desire to defend Morogh. "He didn't know…"

Mórdúil cut her off with a hiss. "I know, small one. I know. He told me the same. You are fortunate, to have the love of such a father," he remarked dryly.

The tears leaked through Fíohra's safeguards and she dropped her gaze. "Then why did you take me from him?" she demanded.

The dragon did not answer immediately and she raised her head. He looked to be deep in thought, the horned ridges above his great opalescent eyes furrowed in a very human manner. When at last Mórdúil answered, his voice was low enough to shake the ground. "It was a life for a life, as is required."

"Then I'm worth no more than a dumb beast?" she cried, indignant.

Mórdúil met her angered gaze steadily and spoke. His tone was very grave. "No, child. But you must learn for yourself why I chose Morogh's daughter as recompense."

"Why? Why won't you just tell me?"

Mórdúil's eyes narrowed. "Because you must learn. Do not ask again," he warned in a voice that brooked no argument. Fíohra let her head hang—ashamed, though still curious. But she obeyed and said nothing more. After a moment, the dragon shifted to a more comfortable position and spoke again, his voice considerably lighter. "You must have other questions, small one. Ask on."

Fíohra bit her lip, suddenly weary of standing. Unsure of her strength, she decided not to pull over the heavy chair. Instead, after a nod of approval from Mórdúil, she sat on the ground. "What are the words on my door? And what do they protect me from?" she thought to ask when she was settled.

"The words that guard the walls of this mountain are echoes of the Words that birthed the worlds. The One who spoke them has chosen them as vessels of power."

"What do you mean?"

"As you might understand it, they simply tell the truth. What is, is written; and what is written, is."

"I don't understand," Fíohra said, furrowing her brow.

Mórdúil sighed. "I forget that your people no longer know of these things. I'm sorry I cannot explain it any better than that."

"Can you tell me what I'm supposed to be protected from?" she tried instead.

"Again, I cannot. There are many secrets hidden in the halls of Drún, and many dangers. Some best remain shrouded in secrecy, for they are less harmful when fear of them does not possess you. Others…well, others must be encountered before I try to explain them to you."

Fíohra's hand fell to the dagger that lay on her hip. "Is that why I have this?" she asked.

Mórdúil nodded. "Your wardrobe is a clever creation. It knows many of the dangers of this place, and it will do its best to protect you. That weapon was a wise choice. Wear it always."

The girl's ran her fingers over the sheath and felt the letters of the strange Language. The familiar shiver that told her she was in contact with a powerful thing ran along her arm, leaving goosebumps.

"Do you know how to wield such a weapon?" Mórdúil asked. Fíohra shook her head. "Then you shall learn." With a gesture and a word she could not understand, Mórdúil summoned a male maeleachlainn from the ranks of its fellows. It presented itself before the human and the dragon with a bow. "Maeleachlainn," its master began, "I place this mortal under your instruction. You will teach her the use of sword, dagger and bow. Begin on the morrow."

Without a word the servant bowed again and took its place among the other maeleachlainn. Summoning a second servant, the dragon gave further instructions for Fíohra's education—much to her astonishment.

"And maeleachlainn, you shall teach the human child the care of your carraiglas. Teach her to ride. You also will begin tomorrow."

Fíohra looked up at the master of the mountain. "And if…when…I have learned these things, will you then tell me the danger I face?"

Mórdúil gave her a long look, his pearled eyes never blinking. "I think," he said at last, "I think you may find your answer before you have mastered these skills. My maeleachlainn will watch over you, but be on your guard nonetheless."

A second shiver passed through Fíohra, leaving a bad taste in her mouth. She knew the taste; it was the taste of fear. Though the presence of the stone servants was a little reassuring, Fíohra was not comforted. The great dragon above her _seemed_ to show an interest in her wellbeing, but she still could not rest easy in his company. As she had told Mórdúil so frankly, she did not trust him. And now another fear rested on her mind, all the more powerful for the fact that it was unknown. Something—or many somethings—prowled the shadows of the great mountain, something the dragon refused to tell her about. And Fíohra did not like the idea of learning by experience.

But her foreboding was pushed aside at the thought of another question. "Mórdúil, who built this place?" she asked.

"It is very ancient," the dragon answered, surveying the stone walls around him. "It was carved from the heart of the mountain when the land was very young."

"But _who_ built it?" Fíohra pressed.

Mórdúil chuckled, the sound sending echoes out into the darkness above. "You _are_ impatient, little mortal! If I answered your question immediately, do you think you would understand better?" Abashed, she shrugged and Mórdúil chuckled again. "It was carved by the Mighty Ones who came across the upper sea from their distant Realms."

Not quite the answer she had expected, Fíohra frowned and decided not to ask for more, as the dragon seemed fond of cryptic replies. She thought of a new question. "Mórdúil, how old are you? How did you come here?"

The dragonish grin faded to thoughtfulness—or so Fíohra thought. It was difficult to read the expressions on his scaly face, if they even _were_ comparable to human expressions. "Child, I am not sure there is understanding enough in that small head of yours to comprehend the span of years for which I have been alive. Even I have lost count. I have lived in the belly of Drün for nearly as long."

"Do you ever leave?"

He paused a moment before replying. "That is not a choice that has been left with me, little one."

"Oh." Fíohra wanted him to explain, but something in his tone—she did not know if it was sadness or sternness—prevented her from asking further. The conversation lapsed into silence for several minutes before either spoke again. "Mórdúil?" Fíohra said at last.

"Yes, child?"

"What…will I do here?"

"You will learn the art of weaponry from my maeleachlainn. You will bond with a carraiglas and learn to ride." Raising his head a little, he gestured with his snout towards the surrounding cavern. "You have the mountain to explore. Do not fear to wander—only remember to be on your guard. And when you wish to sup, I will be here to talk with you. I will teach you things long forgotten by your people and tell you stories of the ancient times." He paused. "Is that a life you would care to live?"

Fíohra did not know what to say. On the one hand, Mórdúil's words wrapped around her and lit a fire of excitement in her mind that she had not anticipated. Unable to escape her curiosity—even in the midst of her fear—Fíohra found that she _did _wish to explore, to see the mountain, to hear the stories a dragon alone could tell. But a second part of her recoiled from the isolation of it all. Eternally bound beneath the rocky slopes of Drün…no touch of sun or breath of wind…with only this ancient creature and his servants of stone for company…

Excepting her father and sister, Fíohra had never cared much for the people of her village, but now she found she missed them. Even the sour, wrinkled face of Old Eithné would bring her more comfort than Mórdúil's, or even Maelé's.

More comfort, of course, but less excitement.

Fíohra sighed. It was a conundrum, though she knew there was little choice left to her in the matter. Rather than enjoy the monotonous security of Baláirdh Drún, she would stay and face the adventure of the mountain—the adventure that nevertheless walked hand-in-hand with danger. Like it or not, that was the path that fortune had set her on, Fíohra realized with a grimace. She would have to make the best of it.

"I…suppose it is," she answered the dragon at last.

"That is a wise answer, little mortal," Mórdúil replied, rising. Fíohra rose as well, unable to restrain a yawn. "But it is growing late. I see you are tired."

"How do you know what time it is?" she managed to ask between a second yawn.

The dragon chuckled and extended one of his wings to point to the bowls of fire imbedded in the cavern wall. "I have made it so that the dragonfire increases and diminishes at the rising and setting of the sun," he explained. Fíohra followed his wing with her eyes and nodded; though so gradual she had not noticed it, the golden light shed from the dragonfire torches had indeed grown dimmer.

"Why don't the torches in my room do that?" she wondered, not realizing she had spoken out loud.

Mórdúil lowered his wing and surveyed the ranks of stone servants. "Maeleachlainn," he called. Maelé stepped forward. "You have lodged the mortal in the Westward Chamber, yes?"

Maelé bowed. "I have, master."

"Then make her lamps likewise," he ordered. Maelé bowed again and stepped forward to Fíohra's side.

"Oh…thank you," she said, a little embarrassed. But neither master nor maeleachlainn reproached her. Maelé placed a hand on Fíohra's shoulder.

"Come, small one," it said.

"A moment, maeleachlainn," the dragon ordered. The two paused, and Mórdúil fixed Fíohra with a dreadful look. "I had nearly forgotten. You are free to wander through the chambers of the Outer Hall and explore them as you wish. But you may not enter the Túráthú, under any circumstances." With his snout he gestured to the dark door in great central pillar. He looked again at Fíohra and narrowed his eyes. "There shall be terrible consequences if you disobey me in this."

Fíohra nodded vigorously, terrified by the sudden severity in the dragon's voice. "I promise," she began, looking down. But then, for just a second, her curiosity rebelled. _What's in there that he doesn't want me to see? _she wondered, raising her head in defiance. But the look in the dragon's eye banished the rebellious thoughts in an instant. "I won't," she finished hurriedly, ashamed of herself.

For a long moment the dragon studied the girl below him, considering. Then his face cleared and the severity relaxed again into amusement. "Your oath is true, little one. Now return to your rooms; my maeleachlainn will fetch you early in the morning to begin your studies." Fíohra bowed and began to back away, Maelé at her side. "Ah! A moment," Mórdúil called after them, as if he had forgotten something else. "I am growing old, little mortal. You must forgive me."

"Why?" Fíohra wondered.

"I have neglected you ask your name."

"Oh!" Fíohra had not realized until that moment that neither the stone servants nor their master had spoken her name yet. "Fíohra," she managed, pushing the name past the tears that leaked onto her cheeks at the memory of her family. Padraigin had been the last one to say it as she tried to save her sister from the maeleachlainn the night before.

"Hmm. Fíohra," Mórdúil said softly, as if tasting the name. "It is a good name. Your father called you well, little one."

She looked down to disguise her emotions. "It…it was my mother's name."

"Ah." Mórdúil straightened. Then, quite to Fíohra's surprise, he extended one foreleg and lowered his head in what could only be described as the courtliest bow she had ever seen. "Good night, then. May your rest be deep and your dreams blessed…Fíohra, daughter of Morogh."


	12. Maeleth of the Knife

~ Chapter XII ~**  
Maeleth of the Knife**

* * *

The next morning, Fíohra woke not to Maelé's touch on her shoulder but rather to the deep reverberation of something under the mountain. Disoriented for a moment in the dimmed light of the torches, she sat up on her mattress of furs, panicking. But after a few more moments, the tremor and her terror subsided, leaving only curiosity. Though Fíohra had never felt an earthquake, she knew instinctively that whatever it was was no natural phenomenon. It was too resonant, too sustained. It puzzled her, but she was not given the opportunity to contemplate it further. A knock shook the door to her chambers and Fíohra jumped unsteadily to her feet.

"Who's there?" she cried, hoping it was Mórdúil's servant come to fetch her and not…something else.

"It is maeleachlainn, small one. I have come to escort you to the armory for the start of your training."

Fíohra breathed a sigh of relief, though it was soon transfigured into annoyance. She glanced at the torches, which still burned at pre-dawn strength. The maeleachlainn would have to wait, at least until she had breakfasted. "I've yet to eat," she cried.

"Then I will wait here," came the level reply.

Satisfied, Fíohra rubbed the sleep from her eyes and approached the enchanted wardrobe, her stomach rumbling a 'good morning' to the lettered wood. "Porridge," she mumbled, placing her hand between the knobs as Maelé had shown her. Counting silently to three, she removed her hand and opened the wardrobe.

A silver pitcher of cream, a basket of almond scones and half a dozen apples greeted her instead.

Fíohra stared in bewilderment. But before she could express her frustration, the wardrobe doors tore themselves out of her hands and snapped shut.

"Oi!" she cried, pulling the knobs open again. The breakfast offering had not changed, except that the wardrobe had added a silver pot of tea and matching cup. Grumbling but realizing the truth of Maelé's warning about the wardrobe, Fíohra retrieved the breakfast tray and retreated to her bed to eat. She could not deny that it had made a delicious choice, but it did not mitigate her irritation at being overruled by an inanimate object.

Nevertheless she dutifully finished her breakfast and returned the dishes to the wardrobe. But no sooner had she shut the doors than they sprang open again, making Fíohra jump. "What now?" she mumbled, subduing the twitch of guilt she felt at making the maeleachlainn wait so long. The wardrobe, however, was insistent, so Fíohra went forward to investigate.

The dishes were gone, replaced with a new outfit. Surprised, Fíohra lifted the pile from the floor of the wardrobe. She had not expected clothes. Used to owning only one dress, her morning habit had never included a change of outfit. Looking down, she wondered if she should keep the leggings and tunic from the day before. But her concern was proved unnecessary as she held up the wardrobe's offerings.

Rather than the fresh legging-tunic ensemble she expected, the shirt she held was lined with leather plates, sewn onto tough, starched linen. The leggings, likewise, were thicker than the ones she'd worn the night before, and the knees were plated in leather as well. And instead of the belt from yesterday, the wardrobe had given her a broad buckler with notches for both sword and dagger scabbards. Fíohra dressed with a smile on her lips, her annoyance with the magical article dissipating. Somehow it had known she was to be engaged in swordplay, and had prepared her accordingly. Once attired, she offered the wardrobe a pat on its door.

"Thank you," she whispered, glad of its quirkiness. "Thank you very much." Straightening, she took a deep breath. With one hand on her dagger, Fíohra made her way to the door. She was ready for whatever Mórdúil and his servants had prepared for her.

At least, she hoped she was ready.

The maeleachlainn waiting outside was not one Fíohra had met before, though she had caught a glimpse of it the previous night, when it had come forward to receive instructions from its master. It was a male, and shorter than both Maelé and the first maeleachlainn she had encountered. No more than six feet tall, it was cloaked in brown and belted in a similar manner as Fíohra. She tried to make conversation as she followed it up to a higher level, but it seemed to prefer silence. Nevertheless, Fíohra managed to convince it to give her a name—any name, she begged. It hesitated for a long moment before answering.

"Maeleth," it said at last, and Fíohra was satisfied.

Maeleth led its human charge past many deserted halls and crumbling staircases before arriving at the armory. It too had a lettered door, but the symbols looked different that the ones on Fíohra's door. She asked Maeleth about them as the paused on the threshold.

"They do not allow the weapons of the room to pass without permission from the master," it explained in a clipped and gravelly voice.

"Ah."

At a touch of Maeleth's stone hand, the door swung open on silent hinges. Fíohra felt her breath stick in her throat as the torches leapt to life inside, revealing an enormous hall lined from floor to ceiling with rows of armaments. Mute, she entered, dazzled by the silver glint of battle axes and the bronze-work on the hilts of ceremonial claymores. There seemed to be enough weapons to supply an army, and Fíohra wondered for what Mórdúil used them all. But she was not allowed to tarry long in her musings; a word from Maeleth brought her attention back to the task at hand.

"Mortal," it said, and she forced her gaze back to her instructor. It stood in the center of the great hall, a longsword already in hand. "The master has commanded me to teach you the ways of these weapons," it explained.

Fíohra nodded. "Aye."

"What experience have you had in battle?" Maeleth asked unexpectedly.

"Ah…none," she replied, caught off guard. Part of her wanted to ask the maeleachlainn the same question, but she held her tongue, determined to learn.

"Come forward," Maeleth ordered. "Which is your sword arm?"

Fíohra extended her right arm. "I supposed it'd be this one."

Maeleth took a few steps to the wall, replaced its longsword and pulled down two blunted practice swords. Without expression, it offered one to Fíohra's left hand. She frowned and reached for it with her right, but the maeleachlainn withdrew before she could take it.

"No, small one. I shall teach your weakest arm first. When you have mastered it there, your stronger will accept the knowledge more easily." Understanding her teacher's logic but reluctant to display her inability, she took the sword with her left hand and tested its weight. It was heavier than she expected. Maeleth took the other in its left hand. "Your first lesson," it began. "Know your weapon. I will teach you the sword and the knife, the bow and arrow. Each is handled differently, and you must know the feel of each one. We will begin with this. Study it, human. Tell me what you see."

Fíohra obeyed, gripping the sword in both hands. "I see…a piece of steel the twice the length of my arm. It's heavy. And there are no decorations on the hilt," she offered.

Maeleth made a sound that might have passed for a sigh. "You have much to learn. You do not see it at all." It extended its hand for her sword and she passed it to him, wondering what she was supposed to have been looking for. The maeleachlainn held both weapons in front of it, studied them, tested their weight and gave each a practice swing. Then it returned Fíohra's. "I see a kill at a single body-length—perhaps more if you were quick. If sharpened, a clean beheading from the back of a carraiglas. A useful weapon, though not the best. A good start, in short, for one as inexperienced as you."

Fíohra accepted the sword with a gulp. She wondered again what sort of things she would ever be defending herself from, what creatures she might have to behead from the back of a carraiglas. The thought was far from comforting.

"We will start on the defensive, human," Maeleth announced, taking several steps back from its student. "I am certain you will need to protect yourself more often than you will need to go on the offensive."

Fíohra wondered if her teacher was trying to anger her to give her an incentive to fight. She also wondered if she should tell Maeleth that its strategy wouldn't work. Already she had accepted the fact that she was woefully unprepared for any sort of serious swordplay, let alone a genuine attack. "A'right," Fíohra replied with a swallow. "Show me what to do."

~o~

Three hours later, Fíohra was bruised, battered and more exhausted than she had ever been in the whole of her short life. Begging the maeleachlainn for a respite from its unforgiving assaults, she collapsed in a corner near the door, her hand nearly frozen to the hilt of the practice sword. Pushing aside her sweaty hair, she recognized her gratitude to the wardrobe once more; the armored shirt had protected her from the worst of Maeleth's hits. But not all of them. Wincing, Fíohra lifted the cuff of her left sleeve. The maeleachlainn had used care to avoid seriously injuring her, but its blunted blade nevertheless left some painful welts. Her wrist ached, as it had received the brunt of Maeleth's force instead of her sword. She felt foolish, weary, a little embarrassed and more than eager for her lessons with Maeleth to end.

Unfortunately, they were only beginning.

"Up, small one," Maeleth instructed, pausing just long enough for Fíohra to catch her breath. "You have much more to learn today."

Fíohra groaned. It was all the response she could muster.

But Maeleth would have none of it. It strode over to the place its student had collapsed and extended its hand. "Rise," it commanded. "You must not allow yourself to rest until we have finished. If you stop, you will never be able to start again."

Reluctantly, Fíohra grasped the stone hand and let Maeleth pull her to her feet. Though her mind saw the sense of her teacher's order, her body still protested. "What…what else have we to do?" she panted, following the maeleachlainn to the center of the hall. Part of her feared the answer, but another part just wanted to get through it and return to her room. The hot bath and bed of furs had never seemed so appealing.

Maeleth replaced its practice sword on the wall and withdrew two battle-knives, each as long as Fíohra's forearm. "I shall _try_ to teach you the art of this blade." The increasing dryness in its voice—the subtle intonation that passed for maeleachlainn emotion—was the only sign of Maeleth's lack of faith in her. Fíohra shrugged and reached for one of the knives with her left hand. To her surprise, Maeleth nodded. "Good, young one," it said, the first word it had spoken in approval. "You do learn."

Heartened a little, Fíohra took up the fighting stance that Maeleth had taught her earlier. But it shook its head. She frowned. "What?"

"We use different blades now. Everything must change. The fighting-knife is a close range-weapon; you must not stand so far off." Again, the subtle rise in its voice was the only indication of sarcasm. "Unless you plan to throw it, small one?"

Vigorously, Fíohra shook her head and moved closer.

"Bend your knees a little more, mortal. And hold the knife firmly. There is even less room for error here than there was with the other."

Fíohra obeyed, sticking the tip of her tongue out in concentration. She shuffled her feet and bent her knees until Maeleth nodded, satisfied. It then explained the rules of the weapon. Its student listened closely, though inside she hadn't the faintest idea how she would remember them all. When Maeleth had finished explaining, the two began.

To her surprise, Fíohra found the dagger much easier than the sword. For one thing, it was lighter; for another, she was naturally quick on her feet. And it helped that the maeleachlainn was so much bigger than her; where in the sword fight it had been to Maeleth's advantage, here Fíohra found an edge. She could dodge around the stone servant more easily, and once she even managed to get a solid hit, ducking beneath its dagger-sweep and thrusting upwards into its exposed stomach. Unfortunately, the maeleachlainn's stone-flesh proved impervious to the steel of the practice blade. Fíohra came away from her attack cradling her arm. But her sore muscles were soothed at Maeleth's emotionless acknowledgement of the hit.

"Well done," it said.

Fíohra smiled to herself. She _was_ learning.


	13. Maelail of the Carraiglas

~ Chapter XIII ~**  
Maelail of the Carraiglas**

* * *

Their dagger practice continued for only another hour before Maeleth gravely announced that she had completed her first day of training. Exhausted but pleased at her progress—no matter how infinitesimal—Fíohra could only nod as she returned the dagger to the wall of weapons. When Maeleth had done likewise, it led its student out of the armory and back to the Westward and her rooms.

Fully expected to part with her instructor at the door, Fíohra's heart dropped to her toes as it informed her of the plans for the rest of the day. "You have a quarter hour to eat and refresh yourself, little mortal," Maeleth said, ignoring the look of disappointment that crossed its student's face. "I will wait for you to finish and then lead you to the maeleachlainn of the carraiglas."

"Why?" Fíohra said, her expectations of a hot bath and long rest slipping from her mind.

Though unaccompanied by the human expressions she knew, Fíohra had become familiar enough with the maeleachlainn's face to know that Maeleth was confused. "The master desires that you be made familiar with the care of the creatures," it answered simply.

"Aye, I know that. I mean why _now_?" she amended.

Maeleth looked at her closely. "What else have you to do, little mortal?"

Fíohra sighed, remembering what Mórdúil had said the night before. The dragon had told her to remind both him and his servants that she needed food where they did not. She wondered if there was more required in that quarter. Though the maeleachlainn often called her mortal, Fíohra realized they knew little of what mortality actually entailed, besides the occasional meal. Secure in their invincible skins of stone, they had likely never known what it was to feel weakness.

"I have to rest," she said at last. "I'm exhausted."

"Ah." It seemed the maeleachlainn had indeed forgotten the fragility of its charge. "I understand," it said, and Fíohra felt a flood of relief. "It is now about an hour before noon, small one," Maeleth said after a moment's consideration. "I will return for you an hour after noon. Will that be satisfactory?"

Fíohra nodded gratefully. "Aye. Very much so. Thank you, Maeleth."

It inclined its head in response as Fíohra opened her door. "I will inform the maeleachlainn of the carraiglas. But rest now, little mortal. I will return in two hours," it reminded her. "Do not forget."

~o~

Despite Maeleth's warning, she nearly did forget. Deep asleep after her bath and a meal, it was the wardrobe that saved Fíohra. She was wrenched from her dreamless slumber by the banging of wood. Thinking for a moment that she was back in the armory, Fíohra threw up her arm to fend off Maeleth's blow. When she felt nothing, she blinked away the sleep from her eyes and sat up, her muscles aching in protest. It took a minute for her to remember where she was and what she had forgotten, but when she did, it brought her to her feet in an instant.

Hurriedly re-buckling her sword belt around her armored tunic, Fíohra spared a glance around the room to discover the source of the noise that had woken her. To her amusement, she saw that the wardrobe had flung its doors open in a makeshift alarm. As Fíohra made for the waiting maeleachlainn, she offered the article a grateful pat. It was the second time that day it had proven both useful and friendly.

With a sigh, Fíohra turned from the wardrobe to the door. Maeleth and the caretaker of the carraiglas were waiting.

"I thought you had forgotten, little one," Maeleth intoned dryly as Fíohra fell into step with her guide. "It is difficult to judge the times within the walls of the mountain, even as a maeleachlainn."

Rubbing the sleep from her eyes and wincing as her muscles protested the movement, Fíohra shook her head. "That…the wardrobe woke me up," she clarified, glad of the spark of conversation. "I nearly did forget," she mumbled.

To her great surprise, a deep, gravelly sound worked its way out of Maeleth's stone throat, echoing in the empty halls in what seemed to be maeleachlainn laughter. Fíohra looked up at the servant, astonished at the sudden display of emotion. Maeleth caught her gaze and the laugh stilled. "Forgive me, little mortal," it said. "I do not mean to offend."

Fíohra shook her head. "No, I'm not offended. I just thought…I didn't know you could laugh." The words emerged clumsily and she lowered her eyes, hurrying to keep up with her guide as it continued down the labyrinthine passages of the mountain.

Maeleth considered a moment before answering. "I understand, small one. The maeleachlainn are not like humans, as I believe you have judged for yourself. Our Maker has not endowed us with the mortal spirit, but there is also much we share with your kind." Maeleth paused and Fíohra bit her lip, unable to think of a response. Maeleth turned its head and continued without slowing its pace. "Does this bewilder you, little one? Speak freely."

Raising and lowering one shoulder, Fíohra obeyed. "Then…you _do_ feel?"

"Feel?" Maeleth spoke the word slowly, as if tasting it. "What do you think I should feel?"

"Emotion, I suppose."

It took time to think before replying. "My master has spoken before of this mortal experience, but I confess I have yet to grasp it." Slowly, it shook its head. "The maeleachlainn do not feel emotion as you would call it."

"But you laughed!" Fíohra pressed.

"Laughed?"

She knit her brows. As taciturn as Maeleth had proved in the armory, it now made up for in exasperatingly cryptic responses. "Aye, just then. When I told you of the wardrobe."

"Ah." At last understanding seemed to have dawned on Maeleth's stony head. "I see, young one. The sound I made." Fíohra nodded, biting back the desire to sigh in relief. _Aye, _that_ sound._ "I acknowledged the irony."

"What irony?" she wondered aloud.

The maeleachlainn spoke as it ushered its charge through an archway near the lower levels of the cavern. "The wardrobe in your chambers has long been an article of frustration among the maeleachlainn. It has been said by others of my kind that it would take nothing less than a human to tame the wardrobe's capriciousness. When you said that it had woken you, the irony was not lost on me. The maeleachlainn were right—indeed, it did take a human hand to tame it."

Fíohra made a face. "What did I do?"

"That I do not know. But if it took the trouble to make you punctual, it must be growing fond of you."

She opened her mouth to answer, then shut it quickly upon realizing that she had nothing to say. Shaking her head, she followed as Maeleth led her to the entrance of the stables. _Dragons who aren't quite dragons, ironic servants of stone and wardrobes that show fondness for their owners_—it was too much to understand all at once. She decided not to try.

"This is the maeleachlainn of the carraiglas, little mortal," Maeleth said in introduction as they entered the torchlit chamber of the stables, their previous conversation ended. It extended its hand to a second servant, an enormous male in worn breeches and a stained tunic. The maeleachlainn was leading one of the creatures for which it was responsible back into the iron-sheathed stall. Upon its introduction, it halted and bowed.

"Well met, young Fíohra," it said, and Fíohra could not help but note the difference in the voices of her two maeleachlainn guardians. Maeleth's was terse and clipped—like flint, Fíohra decided. This new maeleachlainn had a voice of marble—smoother, more varied, yet just as hard. It was an interesting discovery, and in her contemplation, she hardly noticed that the maeleachlainn was the first servant to use her proper name.

"Hello," she said in reply. "Well met to you too, I suppose."

The new maeleachlainn bolted the carraiglas it was leading into its stall and came forward. "Do you ride the mortal horsekind, young one?" it asked without prelude.

Fíohra shook her head. "No." She did not add the fact that it was due to their poverty that she had been deprived of the skill. It seemed irrelevant.

"Ah. That is good. You might have had to unlearn much before mastering the art of riding these creatures." It laid a heavy stone hand on the stall door. "They may have the spirit of mortal horses, but they are wholly themselves. You must learn to see them as such."

Fíohra nodded and stepped up to the stall, not noting that Maeleth had left without a farewell. The carraiglas within the enclosure was neither eating nor drinking, as a real horse might have done. Indeed, she saw neither food nor water in the stall. Instead, the beast was standing stock-still, watching Fíohra with its intelligent coalblack eyes. "Do they have names?" she thought to ask her teacher.

The maeleachlainn leaned next to her and studied the carraiglas. "Names? Why would they require such things?"

Fíohra's brow furrowed. "To tell them apart," she explained.

Her teacher shook its head. "The naming of creatures is a task not to be undertaken lightly. There is power in a name, and great meaning."

"Oh."

The stone servant looked down to the human at its side. Its voice remained both as hard and unfeeling as marble, but its words were kind. "But if you wish, child," it conceded, "you may speak to the master on this. He may think it fitting that a mortal bestow a name on the carraiglas you choose."

Fíohra's face brightened, the impossible task of distinguishing the enchanted creatures from one another now made a little easier. She raised a grateful glance to her teacher. "And what may I call you?"

The maeleachlainn returned its attention to the carraiglas and waited a moment before answering. "Maelail," it said at last. "You may call me Maelail."

~o~

To her surprise—and great relief—Maelail did not ask Fíohra to ride immediately. Unlike Maeleth, it seemed to understand that Fíohra's inexperience would only serve to endanger her around the great stone beasts. Instead, her teacher bid her watch as it rode one down the long, torchlit aisle of the stable hall. From what Fíohra could judge, the carraiglas moved much as a real horse would, though the creature was swifter and more tireless than its mortal cousins.

She then took note as Maelail dismounted and described for her the tack of the carraiglas. The saddle and bridle were of iron-bound leather, and did not look comfortable in the least. But Maelail bid its student only to practice lifting the articles from the back of the creature—a feat Fíohra found more difficult but less impossible that she'd believed. Maelail then had her clean the tack, brushing the metal and rubbing the leather with a soapy substance that reminded Fíohra of the little bottle Maelé had given her for the bath. When her task was complete, Fíohra was released from her lesson with the maeleachlainn.

"And you know your way to the Westward, little mortal?" Maelail asked before they parted. "Or do you wish me to accompany you?"

Fíohra shook her head. "No, thank you. I'll be a'right." She thought it wise to keep from her teacher the fact that, while the shadowy halls of her new home and their unknown dangers frightened her, she was determined to earn her independence, from both the maeleachlainn and from her fear.

Maelail bowed. "Good day, young Fíohra. I will see you this evening. The master has requested that you sup with him again tonight."

"Oh." She steeled herself to the thought. "Aye. Tonight then." And with that she parted with the maeleachlainn.


	14. Shadowspectre

~ Chapter XIV ~**  
Shadowspectre**

* * *

But to her great frustration, her desire for independence proved an inadequate guide through the mountain labyrinth. Fíohra thought she had fixed each turn in her memory. Far too late she realized that she had done so in the reverse order; the steps Maeleth had lead her down to the stables were opposite of the ones she needed to return. By the fifth wrong turning, Fíohra was hopelessly lost.

"Oh, bother it all," she muttered, staring up at the eleventh darkened stairway she had encountered. Fíohra heaved a sigh, wondering how much more time she would waste in un-losing herself. She had no desire to be late for her audience with Mórdúil. Neither did she wish to appear before the dragon in her sore and sweaty state. But now an unknown number of dark passages and stairways lay between her and her bath. She sighed once more and turned to retrace her steps.

"Is…this…a _mortal_ voice I hear?"

Something had spoken out of the darkness. Fíohra darted away from the stairs, the blood forsaking her face. It was not the voice of a maeleachlainn.

"W-who's there?" she cried, unable to disguise the tremble in her voice.

"_Fear_? 'Tis strange to hear that." The speaker drew closer, and Fíohra tried with wild eyes to pierce the gloom of the unlit staircase. "It has been long since I heard any but the voices of the maeleachlainn in these halls."

"Who are you?" Fíohra repeated, willing her voice not to shake. A thousand monstrous images gave shape to the unseen speaker in her imagination, and she could hear Mórdúil's warning in her head. Fíohra fingered the knife at her belt and felt a little braver. Rehearsing in her mind's eye the thrusts that Maeleth had taught her, she readied herself for her enemy. "Show yourself!" she cried.

A low chuckle echoed from the stone passage, sending shivers down Fíohra's spine. "Very well, little brave one."

Fíohra drew her knife.

But no creature stepped out of the darkness to bare fearsome teeth and terrible claws. Instead—to Fíohra's great surprise—the darkness itself deepened and flowed out of the stairway. Fíohra fell back as it swirled and congealed into a vaguely man-like form, misty as a cloud around the edges but solid as night in the center. It had no features and no apparent gender, though the voice that spoke was feminine.

"Here I am, child," the dark shape said.

Fíohra struggled to find the words. "W-what are y-you?" she managed at last.

The creature shifted its insubstantial weight and drifted—like a bank of fog before a storm—towards the trembling girl. "Have you the knowledge in that little head to comprehend an answer I would give?"

"I d-don't know. What do you want?" she tried.

"I want nothing, for I am nothing."

Part of Fíohra felt that she should speed her exit, leaving the living shadow to speak its riddles alone. But a greater part was conquered by curiosity—and, she reasoned with herself, if she ran the creature might follow. It seemed wiser not to risk it. So she pressed deeper into conversation with her mysterious companion.

"What do you mean?"

The shadow-form shook and dissolved, melting into what looked like a puddle of liquid darkness on the stone floor. Then, after a moment in this state, it reared up and congealed again, this time in the shape of what looked to be a great hound. Fíohra stared, open-mouthed, as the hound's tail flicked up once, twice, three times—then broke off. The shard of darkness landed on the shadow-hound's back, and it seemed for a moment that it would be absorbed into the creature again. But it steadied and grew, emerging from shapelessness in the form of a night-black raven, with pinions stretching the full span of Fíohra's arm. When at last the transformation appeared complete, the creature spoke again—from both raven and hound's mouths.

"I am nothing, and I am everything. I am what is from what was forgotten; I am the spark in the darkness, and I am the darkness itself. I am a residue, a remnant. I am a scátha; I am a shade; I am a shadowspectre."

"A _what_?"

The raven's head lifted in Fíohra's direction, and its annoyance with her unimpressed reaction was clear. "A shadowspectre, child," it said again. "The very stones of this mountain echo with power. Just as the maeleachlainn were made of that stone, I was born of their shadows."

"Oh." Fíohra kept a good grip on her dagger, but she lowered the point so as to appear less threatening as she voiced her next question. "And…are you a friendly shadowspectre?" she asked, pronouncing the strange name with care.

The creature of darkness gave a sharp, barking laugh, and Fíohra felt her skin prickle. There was a strange coldness even in the shadowspectre's mirth. "There are those to whom I wish only ill, and there are those to whom I wish only good. I do not think that is what you would consider _friendly_ though, little mortal."

Fíohra swallowed. "Do you wish _me_ ill?" she tried after a moment.

The shadowspectre quivered like a leaf in an autumn breeze. Without answering, the raven's body melted into the head of the hound with its wings outstretched, and in one fluid motion the hound-section stood on its hind paws. Then, suddenly, the creature was human-shaped again. The hound-paws had become human legs, the outspread wings human arms. It was still as dark as starless night, but Fíohra could distinguish the unmistakable profile of her own kind. With a shuffling motion, the shadowy human form expanded and condensed again, draping what looked to be folds of inky cloth over its legs in an imitation of a skirt. Fíohra blinked as the shadowspectre drew a hood over its featureless face. The transformation was complete. In place of the raven-hound stood the living silhouette of a woman, cloaked and cowled in darkness.

"Why should I wish you ill, young one?" the newly-bodied creature asked. Its voice held traces of amusement, but Fíohra was not reassured.

"I…I don't know," she admitted after a pause. "Why _would_ you?"

The shadowspectre drifted nearer. "Some might find your mortality offensive in these ancient halls. Your kind bears death in those fragile little bodies of yours. The reminder of its presence is unwelcome."

Fíohra felt a strange blush of shame rise to her cheeks. "I can't help that…that I'm human," she mumbled, feeling a need to defend her kind. But nothing came to mind.

"True, child. You cannot." The shadowspectre folded its hands. "That is why I am not one who thinks such things."

Relief descended on Fíohra, though questions continued to fill her mind. She lowered her knife further still. "Who does?" she asked, suddenly thinking of Mórdúil.

The shadowspectre tilted its hooded head as if studying the girl in front of it. When it spoke, it sounded intrigued. "Has not the edannathair taken you into the Túráthú? Have you not seen the great Watch-Rose?"

Fíohra frowned, remembering the dragon's injunction the night before. She had sworn never to enter the great pillar—the Túráthú or whatever it was. How then did this shadowspectre know of Mórdúil's secret? "N-no," Fíohra stammered at last. "I was told never to go there."

The shadow-shape scoffed. "This brings me no surprise. The edannathair does like his secrets."

Disconcerting though it was, Fíohra sought the place under the hood of shadow where the creature's eyes—if it had a face—would have been. She needed to think of it as human as possible; it was too strange otherwise. "Have _you_?" she countered.

"Been to the Seal? Trod the ceiling of Diabhalla? Tasted the antediluvian spring?" The hooded head shook once. "I am bound to the Upper Halls while the edannathair is master of Drún," it said, and Fíohra caught a trace of wistfulness in its preternatural voice. It puzzled her, but her attention was quickly absorbed by the strange names the shadowspectre pronounced. _Diabhalla? Whatever is that? _she wondered.

"Will he show me?" Fíohra tried, still a little uneasy in her companion's presence, despite its assurance that it bore her no ill will for being human.

Again the creature scoffed. "I do not pretend to know the mind of my maker, child. I cannot answer this."

"Oh." Fíohra shrugged, willing away the disappointment. The hope had flowered too quickly to take root in her heart, so she didn't feel its withering too keenly. But she did feel an urge to change the topic. "Do you know the way to the Westward Chamber, shadowspectre?" she asked, brightening. "Or…what's your name?"

The shadowspectre laughed. "How human of you, little mortal! Names, names, names. Your father's daughter, truly." Fíohra opened her mouth in astonishment, wondering how the creature knew of old Morogh. But she was not allowed the time to ask, for it continued to speak. "I am no more than what I have told you. But if you must call me by a name, call me scátha. It is easier to pronounce than shadowspectre."

"Oh…aye, then. Scátha," Fíohra repeated, still curious as to her companion's knowledge of her father. But the sudden flickering of a nearby torch reminded Fíohra of the late hour, and her curiosity was overshadowed by a desire for a hot bath and clean clothes. So she set her questions aside and asked the shadowspectre once more if it knew the way to her chambers.

Scátha's hooded head bent in assent. "I do, little mortal. Indeed, there are few passages within Drún with which I am not familiar."

"Would you show me the way back?"

"I will." The woman's shape of living shadow turned towards the stair by which Fíohra had entered the abandoned passageway. "It is this way."

"Thank you," Fíohra said in relief, and followed.

~o~

Fíohra didn't even realize how uneasy she felt in the shadowspectre's presence until they reached the door to her chambers. At the sight of the protective words worked into the wood, she breathed a silent sigh of relief. Though it had proved helpful, trailing Scátha's swirling skirts of pitch darkness through the empty corridors of the mountain was altogether unnerving.

To make matters worse, the shadowspectre had not said a word since it agreed to show Fíohra to the Westward. As Scátha threaded through the stone labyrinth, Fíohra did her best to keep up. The sound of her footsteps cut through the silence of the mountain halls, mimicking the thudding of her heart. After nearly a half-hour of following the shadowspectre, Fíohra began to wonder if she had been wise to enlist its help. Mórdúil's warning from the previous night echoed in her mind.

"_There are many secrets hidden in the halls of Drún, and many dangers…My maeleachlainn will watch over you, but be on your guard nonetheless."_

Fíohra had not seen any maeleachlainn, either around Scátha's haunt or nearer to her own rooms. In an effort to assuage her growing nervousness, Fíohra clutched the hilt of the wardrobe's dagger. She did not ease her grip until the entrance to the Westward was in sight.

Then she relaxed. "Thank you," she said again. Her lingering doubts as to the intentions of the shadowy creature faded. _Shadowspectre or not, it got me that much closer to my bath_, Fíohra thought happily.

"'Tis nothing, child," the shadowspectre replied. It stood with its back to its young charge, studying the characters above the door.

_Or perhaps it's reading,_ Fíohra mused. When Scátha made no move to allow her past, Fíohra edged around her guide and put a hand on the door. "Open," she ordered, and the door complied. But before she entered, she turned once more to her silent companion, feeling a need to display a little more cordiality. "Er…goodbye, Scátha. Will…might I see you again sometime?"

The shadowspectre bowed slightly, its invisible gaze torn from the words of power. "I have no doubt of it, little mortal." Scátha then raised its head and looked—if, with its eyeless attention, it could be called _looking_—straight at Fíohra. "We shall indeed meet again."

And without another word, it left her to the comforts of her well-guarded chamber.


	15. Supper and What Came of It

~ Chapter XV ~**  
Supper and What Came of It**

* * *

Fíohra bathed, dressed and rested her aching muscles for a good hour or two before Maelé came to escort her to supper. Unaffected, as it seemed, by human curiosity, the maeleachlainn did not query its charge as to the events of her day—a fact for which Fíohra was grateful. Upon reflection, her wariness of the shadowspectre had risen once again, and she felt it would not be wise to mention her interaction with Scátha to any of the maeleachlainn. _Mórdúil, perhaps…but not yet. Not until he's answered some more of my questions,_ she decided.

Her opportunity came sooner than she'd expected. Just as had been the case the previous night, her supper was set up beneath the great pillar—the Túráthú, as it was apparently called. The ranks of maeleachlainn, however, were absent; Maelé was the only servant present as Fíohra sat down.

"The master will be here shortly, child," Maelé announced. "Feel free to begin your meal," it added in an especially dry voice, recalling, it seemed, the events of the night before. Fíohra smiled as the maeleachlainn withdrew to the far end of the table, and began to eat.

"So! You learn quickly, I am told!"

The dragon's thunderous voice made Fíohra's jump in her seat. Her gaze snapped upwards, towards the wall of the forbidden pillar. Mórdúil hung vertically above her, clinging casually to the rough surface, his outstretched wings blending well into the bronze stone of the mountain. His mouth was open in a familiar toothy grin, pleased, Fíohra supposed, at his success in startling her.

"The maeleachlainn of the armory says that you managed a fair strike against it, little Fíohra," Mórdúil continued, slithering in an uncomfortably snake-ish way down the wall. But before he reached the ground he extended his wings and leapt into the air, easing his fall with a few powerful wingbeats until his great hooked foreclaws touched the stone floor. "My maeleachlainn do not bestow praise idly. I am proud of you," he said as he settled on his haunches before her. "You must have done well."

Fíohra was astonished. She had not imagined—though it made sense once she thought about it—that Mórdúil would be informed of her progress by her maeleachlainn tutors. But even more unexpected was the fact that _he_ would be proud of _her_, and for such a little thing! It was unfathomable. Nevertheless, Fíohra felt something stir in her heart at his affirmation. "T-thank you, sir," she managed, standing.

Mórdúil made a dismissive motion with his snout. "Your father has taught you manners, I see. But you need not stand on such formality in my presence, little one." He chuckled. "It would soon wear you out."

Abashed, Fíohra sat again. When the dragon failed to continue, she resumed her meal.

"Maeleachlainn," Mórdúil said suddenly after a long pause, "has the Leabharlann been attended to recently?"

Maelé came forward. "It has, master."

With the fork halfway to her mouth, Fíohra looked from dragon to servant and back again, trying to discern what it was they were talking about. Mórdúil saw her look, nodded to Maelé and rested his head on his front claws. "When you have finished your meal, Fíohra, I have something to show you." Interest instantly sparked in Fíohra's mind. She thought of Scátha and the Túráthú and the dragon's secrecy, and before she could help it, her eyes flicked to the pillar.

It was a mistake. Mórdúil saw her look and growled, sending shivers up her spine. Too late—she tried to look down at the floor, at the food in front of her, anything. But it made no difference. Mórdúil raised his head and fixed her with a stare than sent her limbs quaking and her heart galloping in fear.

"No." The single syllable pierced Fíohra like a spear, and she lowered her head further. "I have said it once before: the Túráthú is forbidden to you. Do not even think to disobey me in this," he warned.

Fíohra nodded, unable to speak for terror. A long minute passed in accusatory silence, and she dared not raise her eyes.

"Child?" Mórdúil said at last. The gentleness in his tone took Fíohra by surprise. "Child, do not be afraid to look at me," he reassured her.

But Fíohra's head would not cooperate. The dragon's reaction had woken all her old fears, and she could not bear to meet his gaze. _How do I know this creature wishes me well?_ she thought. _What do I know about him at all? _The tales from her village that told of ancient dragons and their treachery came to mind. _How do I know that he may not slay me in some fit of anger? For one mistake? One wrong word, one impulsive glance?_ She studied the plate of food before her. _Or how do I know that he's not fattening me up for a later meal? How…?_

But her terrified musings were cut short by the most unexpected sensation. Something hard and leathery touched her chin, lifting it gently until her eyes met Mórdúil's once more. He had extended his bat-clawed wing and was using its bony tip to tilt her gaze towards him. "Forgive me, child," he said, the thunderous voice muted with remorse. "I am not angry with you. You must understand…I do not forbid the Túráthú to you simply to test your obedience. There are things within that you are not prepared to see."

For a moment, the doubts continued to claw at Fíohra's heart. But the expression in Mórdúil's eyes at last eased her fear. Whether she wished to or no, she believed him. Whatever lay beyond the stone walls of the Túráthú—_that_ was what she had to dread. Not Mórdúil. Fíohra nodded in acceptance of his apology, her courage returning. Mórdúil's scale-clad face relaxed into a look that she took to mean relief.

"That is well, little one. I would not have you live in fear of me."

"I'm sorry," she murmured. "I didn't mean…"

But he would not let her finish. "Don't, child. To be curious is to be human. You have done nothing for which you need to apologize." A spark of amusement lit up the dragon's opalescent eyes and he settled his head on his claws once more. Tucking his wing back into its place at his side, Mórdúil chuckled. "Perhaps we should begin again. I have started this evening rather poorly, I'm afraid."

"Aye, let's." Fíohra swallowed the rest of the food on her plate and stood, mastering the last of the trembling in her limbs. "I'm ready, sir," she announced, wondering what exactly it was that the dragon had to show her.

"_Mórdúil_," he reminded her, raising the horned ridges above his eyes. "Are you finished already?"

She nodded, touching the handle of the fine silver knife she had used to cut her meat. "I'm…I'm not used to so much food," she said softly, remembering the scarcity of her father's hovel. Blinking back the homesick tears, she glanced up at the master of the mountain. "I'm full."

Mórdúil made a musing sound in his throat and considered the tiny human before him. "Very well," he agreed after a moment. With a hissing sigh, he rose to his feet and stretched his wings. "Then we should begin, yes?"

Fíohra frowned. "Oh…aye." She cast a puzzled glance towards Maelé, but the maeleachlainn might as well have been a true statue, for it gave no indication as to its master's intentions. Fíohra returned her gaze to the dragon. "Er…where are we going?"

A disconcerting smile broke across Mórdúil's face, and Fíohra could not help but take note of his many teeth. She swallowed. "Up," he said cryptically.

"What?"

"There is something I wish to show you in the Uppermost Hall." He thrust his snout in the direction of the roof. "It will be quickest for me to take you myself."

The implications of dragon's gesture began to dawn on Fíohra, and she fell back a step. "H-how?" she tried, praying that he did not have in mind what she thought he had in mind.

"Flying, of course."

"_What?_"

"Those little legs of yours would soon tire of the climb," Mórdúil said good-humoredly. "It is a three hour march from the floor to the roof of Drún, little one. I can take you there in minutes." He spread his wings as if to demonstrate.

Doing her best to calm her racing heart, Fíohra glanced in the direction her companion had indicated. The ceiling of the mountain was hidden in shadow, the central spire of the Túráthú lost in its dizzying darkness. The bowls of dragonfire embedded around the outer wall grew scarcer as the roof neared, until at last they petered out altogether. Strange shadows played at the fringe of the dragonfire-light, and Fíohra wondered what could possibly be up there worth seeing.

"Are you ready?" Mórdúil asked, pulling her attention back to the floor of the cavern. He moved closer to the table and settled to the ground, bringing his scaly back closer to Fíohra's reach.

Again, she swallowed. "You want me to…_ride?_"

"Yes. You will be hardly any burden at all, I assure you."

Fíohra grimaced. It was not Mórdúil's comfort she was concerned with; she worried more for her own safety. The ridges and spikes of his dragon's back did not look remotely reassuring. "Are…are you sure I won't fall?"

Mórdúil turned to look her in the eye, and she felt at once that he understood her fear. Making a strange, almost musical sound in his throat, he extended his foreleg so as to help her clamber up. When she made no move to comply, he bowed his head once and returned her gaze. "I give you my most solemn word that you will reach the Uppermost Hall and return safely."

Fíohra gritted her teeth; such a promise gave her no other option. "A'right," she said at last, taking a step forward. "Tell me what to do."

Mórdúil smiled. "Put your foot here," he moved his foreleg to show her, "and I will lift you to my back. Try to sit between my shoulders. You may hold on to my spikes if you feel the need," he added. Setting her mouth in a grim line, Fíohra complied. Placing her booted foot on top of his claw, she gripped the crook of his foreleg and felt herself moving upwards. As soon as Mórdúil's neck came in view, she pushed herself off his claw and threw one leg over the scaly shoulders, taking care not to sit on one of the blunted spikes that lined his spine. It was a tight fit, and uncomfortable, like straddling a boulder, but Fíohra felt reasonably secure. She leaned forward until she was parallel with the dragon's neck, hoping he could hear her.

"And what…what if I start to slip?" she couldn't keep from asking.

Mórdúil snorted. "I promise you will not fall. Now are you prepared?"

Fíohra frowned and sat up, gripping the spikes in front of her as hard as she could. Her stomach was churning wildly with fear, but she tried hard to quell it. She guessed that Mórdúil would not appreciate being covered in sick several thousand feet above the ground. _I suppose there's nothing for it,_ she thought, steeling herself.

"Aye, I'm ready."


	16. The Dragon's Library

~ Chapter XVI ~**  
The Dragon's Library**

* * *

The floor shot out from under them, and Fíohra felt her stomach jump into her throat. She doubled over Mórdúil's neck so as to keep from being swept off in the gale from his wings. Everything was a blur of scales, stone and shadow. Through bleary eyes Fíohra sometimes saw the dim outlines of windows in the far wall, sometimes—and much closer—the unmarked face of the Túráthú, and sometimes nothing but empty space. After a minute she closed her eyes, willing the disorienting barrage of sights and angles out of her mind with lowered eyelids.

For what seemed an eternity she stayed like that—eyes screwed shut, bent over the dragon's broad shoulders, clinging to his spikes for dear life. The sound of rushing wind and the thudding of his wings filled Fíohra's whole world and mingled with the pitiful throbbing of her own anxious heart.

But after a while she became aware of a new sound. Pressed as she was against his scaly neck, Fíohra could hear the dragon's heart beat. The sound astonished her in a way she had not expected, for it frightened her without causing her actual fear. Something in its inhuman rhythm, its awful power and its sheer vitality stirred a sense of awe in Fíohra that she was not prepared for. All at once, with their two hearts beating so near each other, the mighty creature seemed both utter stranger and strange kin.

It was a most peculiar feeling.

"Hold tight, little one! I must stop soon," Mórdúil announced.

Her eyes snapped open.

Immediately she wished they hadn't. Mórdúil had flown straight into the dim bowl of shadow that capped the mountain cavern, following the rising wall of the Túráthú. It was now very near to her left hand; indeed, she might have been able to touch it if she dared to release her hold on the dragon's back. But she did not dare. Below (though she tried to avert her gaze) Fíohra could not help but see the floor of the cavern, a sickening distance from where they hung suspended in the air. She swallowed and buried her head against the scales of Mórdúil's neck.

"Hold on!" he cried again, and with a sharp thump, the motion of the great wings ceased.

Fíohra's heart nearly stopped in her chest, but they did not fall. When she worked up the courage to raise her head and open her eyes, she saw that Mórdúil had landed, though there was open space all around them. Sneaking a timid glance downwards, the scene revealed itself: the dragon had landed on the tip of the Túráthú, which did not rise all the way to the roof of the mountain as she had first thought. It tapered to a dangerously thin spire of stone, and it was to this spire that Mórdúil now clung.

"Are…w-we there?" Fíohra asked, unable to keep her voice from shaking.

"Look up, child."

She did so.

"Oh."

A great hole pierced the stone ceiling above them, revealing a perfect circle of darkness beyond. It was just wide enough for Mórdúil to pass through. Fíohra's heart leapt into her mouth as he began to climb towards it. She did not try to imagine what lay within. Nearly a dozen feet from the opening, the Túráthú came to an end. They paused for a moment, and Fíohra thought the dragon was reconsidering. But then, with horror, she realized that he was readying himself to spring. She could feel the muscles tense beneath her, and—leaving just enough time for her to tighten her grip—Mórdúil leapt into the air.

Fíohra's scream was stillborn. Even before the climax of their ascent, the dragon's front claws caught the rim of stone and arrested their flight. With a little undignified scrabbling, he heaved himself and his mortal burden up into the darkness of the Uppermost Hall.

"Are you all right?" he asked once they had come to a true stop on solid ground.

Fíohra sat up in the darkness, pressing her hand to her chest to calm her pounding heart. "Aye," she managed, breathless. "Aye, I'm a'right."

"Good." Mórdúil shook his wings and strode forward, still bearing Fíohra. She appreciated his willingness to carry her; after his leap, she didn't trust her legs to support the rest of her. "Then I think it's time for a little light." He murmured a word that Fíohra did not understand, though she felt its power crest over her body with the force of an ocean wave. All at once, great basins of dragonfire erupted to life around the walls of the Hall. "There," Mórdúil said, satisfied. "That will do."

Fíohra's mouth fell agape in wonderment. She slid from Mórdúil's back without thinking, the trembling in her limbs stilled by an overpowering sense of awe.

"Oh," she murmured. "_Oh_."

"This, little Fíohra, is my Leabharlan," the dragon announced proudly.

The room was not as wide as the cavern below it, but it still made Fíohra feel tiny. It vaulted above her head in a smooth arc, rather like a gargantuan, inverted earthenware bowl. The floor was smooth and unbroken by any sort of furnishing, accept for the dragon-sized hole in the very center. But it was not the size that astonished Fíohra most. For all around the Leabharlann, covering the walls from floor to ceiling, were hundreds of thousands of carvings—tiny, intricate and beautiful beyond belief.

"What are they?" she whispered, unable to keep herself from moving towards the nearest wall to inspect them more closely.

Mórdúil settled on his haunches and adjusted his wings at his side before answering. "They are the myths and legends of many generations. They are tales of greatness and of great wickedness, of justice and evil and goodness and danger and love. They tell of battles and wars, of losses and victories and ruin. They tell of earth and sea, life and death, mortal and immortal. They are the stories of many peoples, many tongues, many nations." He paused and fixed Fíohra with a thoughtful look. "This is the history of your world, child."

She turned to stare at him, incredulous. "All of it?"

The rumble of dragonish laughter broke the gravity of the moment. "Ha!" he snorted, lifted his head to keep the superheated air from scorching his companion. When the first throes of his mirth had passed, he lowered his head to smile at the mortal before him. "Little one, what a thought!"

Fíohra felt a bit ashamed. She stared at her toes and shrugged. "I guess not."

Mórdúil shook his head. "If every stone of Drún was carved as these walls are, half of the story would not fit within the halls of mountain."

"Ah." It was all Fíohra could think to say.

"Do not feel abashed, Fíohra," Mórdúil reassured her. "It was an honest question."

"Aye." She paused to let her embarrassment fade a little before asking another. "And what is it you wish me to do here?"

"Child…" the dragon began, his pearled eyes softening in what she imagined to be a look of sympathy. He continued in a gentle tone. "Do you know how to read?"

Frowning, Fíohra shook her head. It was true; Morogh had never been able to provide his daughters the means to a proper education. But in this one respect, Fíohra knew she was like many other daughters of Baláirdh Drún. Few among even the adults of the village knew how to read. "No. I never learned."

"Ah." He made a sound in his throat and shook his head once. "Well, it is no matter. I suppose it is fitting, then, that this is the only library I can provide you."

"What do you mean?" Fíohra inquired.

"It is my hope that you will find time to study these stories and draw wisdom from them," he said, favoring her with a very dragonish smile.

"Really? Then I can visit this place whenever I wish?"

Mórdúil chuckled. "Of course you may, young one. I only fear that you may find it less attractive when you must climb here yourself." He gestured with a wingtip towards a dark doorway cut into the far wall. "That leads down the side of the mountain, back into passages of the lower halls. My maeleachlainn know the way. But it is a very long climb from the Westward when I am not able to bear you myself."

Fíohra turned and fixed her companion with a troubled glance. "Why not?"

The good humor evaporated from Mórdúil's face, and he heaved a long, hissing sigh before answering. Indeed, he was silent long enough for Fíohra to fear that she had offended him. But when he spoke, he did not sound offended. Instead, he sounded sad. "Fíohra, come closer."

She obeyed.

"You must know that I will tell you all I can, but there are many things yet that I must not yet speak of. Can you accept that?"

Puzzled, she nodded. "Aye, I suppose."

"Good. Then you must know that it was not without purpose that I was made master of Drún. There are many things that need looking after in these ancient halls," he said softly. "I am bound to my duties here, and bound to fulfill them alone. So I will beg you to forgive me if I seem to disappear once every in a while. Those are the times when you must come to the Leabharlann without me."

Fíohra thought of the Túráthú and his great secret. She nodded again. "I understand."

He raised his head, and it seemed for a moment that the sadness in his expression lessened a little. "Thank you, child." Then, almost without warning, his former mood returned. "Now…would you prefer to study these for the rest of the night, or would you like to return in the morning?"

Fíohra glanced at the bowls of dragonfire on the walls. They were indeed quite dim. She turned to the carvings nearest her and sighed; though she greatly desired to begin following the intricate stone scenes throughout the world's history, her earlier lessons with Maeleth and Maelail had sapped her of the energy required for such a task. _Bother them!_ she grumbled to herself. _What's swordplay and carraiglas tack to this?_ But despite her desire to stay, her aching body demanded that she decline.

"Aye. I'll come another time."

"Very well," Mórdúil agreed, unfurling his wings and extending his foreleg to his companion. "Then let us return."


	17. Maiden of the Mountain

~ Chapter XVII ~**  
Maiden of the Mountain**

* * *

Deep, dreamless sleep awaited Fíohra when she returned to her room, exhausted by the events of the day. It took both the increasing light of the dragonfire torches and the insistent banging of the wardrobe doors to wake her the next morning. Though she held out the hope that the day might pass without word from either of her tutors, she reluctantly dressed herself in the heavy leather jerkin provided by the wardrobe, just in case.

Her preparation was not in vain. To her chagrin, her breakfast was interrupted minutes later by a knock at the door.

"Are you awake, little one?" Maeleth's voice echoed through the stone chamber.

Fíohra groaned. She wished more than anything that the maeleachlainn would let her skip her lessons for the day, if only to give her muscles a little more time to recover. As it was, she felt about as stiff as a plank and nearly as enthusiastic. But something—whether it was the memory of Morogh's honesty or her own scruples in the matter—would not allow Fíohra to remain silent and deceive the maeleachlainn into thinking she was still asleep.

"Aye," she grumbled, licking the last of her porridge from her spoon. Heaving herself to her feet, she deposited the remains of her breakfast in the wardrobe, trusting it to dispose of the dishes by whatever means it chose. Giving her shoulders a resigned little shake, she faced the door. "Aye," Fíohra said again, louder this time. "I'm ready."

~o~

The day passed much as Fíohra had feared. Maeleth worked her hard, reviewing what she had learned with the longsword and dagger the day before. After hours of practice, it allowed her a short break, only to resume a few minutes later with an introduction to the bow and arrow. She watched as her tutor demonstrated stringing the bow and fitting the arrow, then clapped her hands in amazement as it struck the center of a wooden target set up at the far end of the armory. Satisfied with its aim, Maeleth unstrung the bow and handed it to Fíohra.

"Do you remember what I taught you yesterday, child?" it asked, removing the quiver from its back and placing it on the ground next to its charge.

Fíohra frowned and retraced the steps in her memory as she accepted the bow. It was as tall as she was and beautifully carved of a single yew stave. She felt the well-oiled bowstring and suddenly remembered. "Know your weapon," she answered.

Maeleth nodded. "Indeed." It bent to remove a single arrow from the quiver and handed it to Fíohra. "I will leave you to study these for a few minutes. I have something for you."

Fíohra accepted the arrow with a surprised expression. "Really?" She wondered if she had heard right, finding it hard to picture any sort of present from the stern maeleachlainn. "What is it?"

But Maeleth was already moving towards the door and did not answer. Fíohra shrugged and fingered the articles in her hands. _I suppose I find out soon enough. _In the meantime, she figured she might as well do as he suggested. Fíohra laid the bow on the stone floor and sat next to it, examining the arrow. It was as long as her arm, perfectly straight and capped with a stone arrowhead. The fletching was of a strange, coppery sort of feather that Fíohra did not recognize. They sparkled in the torchlight as she ran her finger along the shaft. The fletching was as soft as liquid to the touch, and it sent an involuntary shiver up her arm.

"Phoenix feathers." Maeleth's voice cut through her musings and she looked up. Her tutor stood next to her, a cloth-wrapped basket in it hand. Its stone eyes were fixed on the arrow. "Endues the shot with great speed and accuracy," it continued, looking down at her as she scrambled to her feet. "But they do not entirely supplant the skill of the archer—which is why you must practice." Maeleth set the basket it was carrying on the ground and extended its hand to Fíohra to receive the weapon. She gave them over willingly, forgetting her wonder for the phoenix feathers in her curiosity.

"What's that?" she asked, nodding to the basket.

Maeleth slipped the arrow back into its quiver and strapped it over its shoulder. "Your lunch," it answered simply. "There is much left to learn today, and I may only keep you until an hour after noon. Then you must join the maeleachlainn of the carraiglas for your training there. We must make the most of our time."

Fíohra's heart fell. She had been looking forward to a restful hour or two back in her rooms before descending to the stables to study with Maelail. But that—along with leisurely breakfasts and un-stiff muscles—was apparently a thing of the past. Resigning herself to the maeleachlainn's schedule, she uncovered the basket and set upon her lunch of bread, goat's cheese and dried fish.

She had the feeling it was going to be a long day.

~o~

To Fíohra's surprise, it passed more swiftly than she'd dared hope. The bow and arrow was a challenging weapon to master, but she found it a rewarding test of her strength. Maeleth had her first attempt a stringing of the bow, and it strained every muscle she knew she had, and some that she didn't. After three tries, with the sweat standing in beads on her forehead and Maeleth watching with cool approval, she at last succeeded. Then came the notching of the arrow, followed by instruction on how to draw, sight and aim. Fíohra's first shot fell short of the target, but Maeleth nevertheless commended it as a decent attempt. It then led its charge to the middle of the armory and told her to try again.

The hour drifted by in a strange rhythm. Fíohra soon began to understand the feel of the bow in her hand, and once or twice she managed to actually hit the target, much to her surprise. By the time Maeleth announced the end of their lesson together, Fíohra was astonished at her own progress. She followed her tutor down to the carraiglas stables with a new and confident light in her eyes.

Maelail must have perceived the change in its student's attitude from the previous day, for it too wasted no time in gradual instruction. It briefly reviewed the components of the carraiglas' tack before saddling one for itself and ordering Fíohra to do the same. Nervous but eager to prove her worth, she obeyed, lingering over the stalls of a half-dozen massive stone beasts before choosing the smallest one of the lot. It eyed her curiously as she took a deep breath and entered its stall, ready for it to bolt. But it stood placidly as she approached, making no move to run when she hefted the heavy leather saddle over its back. It even obliged to open its iron-toothed mouth when Fíohra slipped the bit over its head. With its assistance, the carraiglas was ready in half the time she had anticipated.

Which left her the trouble of mounting it.

"Oh." She frowned, realizing her dilemma. "Maelail?"

"Yes, child?" it replied, wheeling its carraiglas around to face Fíohra.

She felt her cheeks redden. "I, uh…I can't get up."

Maelail did not laugh. "Of course. That was thoughtless of me." It dismounted and gestured her forward. "Lead it out and I will help you up."

Relieved that her tutor did not find the situation humorous, Fíohra obeyed. Once in the stable aisle, Maelail bent to allow its charge a mounting-post of its knee. Given the aid of the extra height, she clambered atop the carraiglas' wide back and fit her feet into the shortened stirrups, praying that the beast did not bolt. But it stood as still as ever, and for a moment Fíohra wondered if it had felt her presence at all. She certainly did not have the solidity of a maeleachlainn to secure her on the creature's back, and she feared it would take very little to dislodge her from her place.

"Are you ready, little one?" Maelail asked, swinging back up onto its own mount. "We will ride thrice along the length of the hall so you may learn the rhythm of its gait. Then I will lead you into the down to the Central Hall, where you may give a test of your beast's speed." It paused and studied the human child before it. "Is that satisfactory?"

Fíohra gulped. She had not forgotten her first encounter with the carraiglas on the night she was taken from her family. The memory of the rushing wind and dark landscape slipping by on either side assured her that the stone creatures were quite capable of great speed. She needed no new proof of that, nor did she desire it. But there seemed little alternative; if she did not agree to Maelail's curriculum, her entire time of study with the maeleachlainn would be useless. _Besides,_ she reminded herself, _Mórdúil wants me to learn. I can't let…I can't show him I'm a coward. _Fíohra blinked away sudden tears. _Father wouldn't want me to._

"Aye," she answered at last, coming to a decision. "It is."


	18. Breagha

~ Chapter XVIII ~**  
Breagha**

* * *

And so Fíohra learned the art of riding, even as she had never so much as sat upon the back of a mortal horse. Thus her strange education progressed, with Maeleth as well as Maelail. As the dragonfire-days dawned and set within Drún, she bravely faced each new lesson that the maeleachlainn set before her, both in the armory and on the back of a carraiglas. It was hard, at first, for her accept the challenges they brought, but as the days passed into weeks, she discovered (with not a little satisfaction) that tasks which might have seemed impossible the first day were now performed with ease.

She found at the end of her third week within the mountain halls that her muscles had toughened considerably and she was far stronger than she had ever been at home in Baláirdh Drún. The calluses that had formed on her hands over the course of her first few lessons had spread and thickened, so that she could now notch and draw an arrow without the bowstring cutting into her fingers. She had grown swifter of foot as well, and it was no longer surprising for her to manage a dagger-hit against Maeleth while they dueled.

The longsword alone continue to give her trouble, but Maeleth was an understanding teacher. Once it saw that its student would never master the weapon, it concentrated its lessons on knife and bow, with only the occasional review of the sword. Fíohra appreciated this very much, and she did her best to demonstrate her appreciation. Maeleth never had a more attentive or dedicated student than it did after it announced the cessation of the longsword lessons.

With Maelail, too, Fíohra strove to excel. After their first ride in the Central Hall, Fíohra's fear of the falling from the carraiglas evaporated, leaving only enthusiasm. As they trotted in wide circles around the Túráthú, her tutor had informed her that it was a carraiglas' business to see that its rider stayed on its back; even at a great speed it would not allow her to fall, unless she chose to leap off in midair. Then, as Maelail added dryly, her hurts would be none of its concern. Fíohra laughed at that, but she also took comfort. Whatever energy she had planned to spend on keeping her seat could now be expended in a more productive manner; namely, directing and instructing the carraiglas.

And that was a task she found easier than anticipated. The beast she had chosen the first day soon became her preferred mount, partly for its easy-going temperament and partly for its small stature. Remembering Maelail's warning on the first day, Fíohra was careful to call the carraiglas "Breagha" only within the confines of her mind. She did not want Maelail to think she had somehow misused the power in the name. Yet despite her silence, she and Breagha shared every riding lesson, and within a month they were competent enough to draw praise from the maeleachlainn.

"Well done, young one!" it said at the conclusion of their first gallop around the perimeter of the Central Hall. Fíohra, breathless and glowing with the exhilaration of their run, slowed Breagha to a halt in front of her tutor. "This carraiglas has taken to you," it continued. "I will inform the master of your performance this afternoon. He will wish to see you both for himself."

Fíohra opened her mouth to answer gratefully, but she was interrupted by the familiar explosion of wings above her head, followed immediately by the thunderous voice of the edannathair.

"There will be no need for that, maeleachlainn," Mórdúil announced as he descended from his perch on the walls of the Túráthú. Maelail bowed and Fíohra grinned, wondering how he had escaped their notice but pleased that he had seen her at her best. The dragon gave her an amused look and continued. "I have witnessed it for myself." Mórdúil landed with his wings outstretched and nodded to his servant. "Rise, maeleachlainn. You have taught her well."

"Thank you, master," Maelail replied gravely.

Mórdúil turned to Fíohra. "And you, child—you have learned well. Indeed, this carraiglas has taken to you well. It acknowledges you as its rightful rider."

Fíohra dismounted and walked Breagha a little way forward. "Thank you, Mórdúil," she said. "I…" She paused.

"Speak on, Fíohra."

"I've thought of a name for it," she said quickly, hoping he did not discourage her. "Maelail said…"

The rest of her words were drowned out in the sound of Mórdúil's laughter. Her gaze fell to the floor and she studied her toes, embarrassed. But the great dragon was quick to assure her, once he sobered again. "I do not laugh at you, child." He turned once more to the maeleachlainn. "Is this your name, then? You are Maelail?"

"I am, master, if you will allow it," the servant answered.

Mórdúil nodded once. "I do. It is a good name, and all the better for being brought out by a mortal." He returned his attention to the girl before him. "Now what is it you wish to call the carraiglas?"

"Breagha," Fíohra answered, raising her eyes. "I…I thought it fit her…it." She punctuated her thought with a shrug, for she had never actually asked whether the stone creature had a gender. Fíohra had assumed it to be feminine, just as she assumed Maelé was feminine. But she didn't really know.

"Hmm." Mórdúil settled on his haunches and took on a thoughtful look. "Breagha," he repeated. "It is a name of the old tongue. Do you know what it means?" he asked, his expression intensifying.

Fíohra shook her head. "No. I just thought it sounded…pretty."

"Ah."

"What does it mean, Mórdúil?" Fíohra asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.

Mórdúil smiled. "'Beauty.'"

"Oh." She was pleased with the knowledge, but the look in the dragon's eye puzzled her as well. "And…is it a good name for it?" she wondered aloud.

Mórdúil made a familiar humming noise in his throat, which Fíohra took to mean he was contemplating her question. It was certainly a long while until he answered.

"That would depend, as was once said, on the beholder. As for me, little Fíohra, I can see it put to better use on another."

Fíohra frowned and opened her mouth to defend her choice, but she clapped it shut as his cryptic answer deepened her puzzlement. The twinkle in his pearled eyes confused her as much as his words, and she wondered what he could mean. But before she could voice her bewilderment, the dragon spoke again.

"However, it is your choice, and I think it a good one." He lowered his great scaly head to the carraiglas' muzzle, and Fíohra was quite astonished at the beast's courage. While the carraiglas stood as docilely as ever, she had to step back a few feet to escape the edannathair's scalding breath. Mórdúil touched the stone forehead once with his chin and addressed the carraiglas. "Fíohra has named you Breagha, my good beast. So you shall be called, for she is now your mistress. May you carry her well."

To Fíohra's great surprise, the newly-christened Breagha extended one foreleg and lowered its head in what, for all she could tell, was the equine equivalent of a bow. It then rose and retreated to Fíohra's side, making a metallic noise like a whinny and thrusting its nose under her hand. Fíohra laughed in delight, forgetting her puzzlement over the dragon's earlier words. "Thank you, Mórdúil!" she said as soon as the laughter had passed. "Thank you very much."

"You are welcome," he replied, straightening. "And now I have a request for you, young one."

"Yes?"

With his snout he gestured towards the roof of the cavern. "If I order an early supper from the maeleachlainn, will you join me this evening in the Leabharlann?"

Fíohra's face brightened. She had not found time to return to the Uppermost Hall since her first memorable trip to the dragon's library, though she had often wished to visit. For a full month, her studies with Maeleth and Maelail had left her too exhausted to climb the three-hour staircase, and Mórdúil had not offered to carry her again. Nor had Fíohra asked; she remembered the mysterious duty he was bound to in the Túráthú and did not question his silence on the matter. But now that he had offered again…

She could feel the excitement rise in her chest at the prospect of seeing that magnificent hall once more. "Of course!" she replied. "I'd love to."

"Good," Mórdúil rumbled, getting to his feet and shaking out his wings. "Then I will meet you here as soon as you have had a chance to bathe. Until then," he said, saluting her with a wingtip. One of the great opalescent eyes winked at her, and Fíohra grinned. "And once again, well done."

~o~

After returning Breagha to the stables and parting with Maelail, Fíohra bathed and dressed as quickly as she could. When she had finished, she traced the now-familiar path to the Central Hall. Mórdúil was there waiting for her. He beckoned her to come and eat, which she hurried to do. As soon as the last crumbs were cleaned from her plate, Fíohra stood, doing her best to master the butterflies that threatened to upset her stomach. While she dearly wanted to see the Leabharlann again, the prospect of flying had not grown on her any more in the past month, and she looked forward to the ascent with equal parts dread and excitement. But she trusted Mórdúil, and once she was safely lodged between his shoulder spikes, a little bit of the dread began to ebb away.

That was, until he launched himself into the air.

Then it came back, thick and fast, drowning out even her excitement. Fíohra shut her eyes and clung to Mórdúil's back with all the strength she had. She did not let go until she was absolutely sure they were on the solid ground of the Uppermost Hall. Then, and only then, did she allow herself to ease her grip and look around.

At a word from Mórdúil, the dragonfire bowls leapt to life, bathing the magnificent carvings in the glow of an early evening sun.

"Ah! There we are," he said, surveying the walls with an experienced eye. Then, noticing that Fíohra was not standing next to him, he swung his head around to see her still sitting on his shoulders, her pale face just easing back into its normal shade as the fear dissipated. Mórdúil chuckled and offered his foreleg for her to climb down. "Not yet used to flying, hmm?"

Fíohra eased herself to the floor and took a deep breath. Exhaling forcefully, she shook her head and smiled. "Aye. It's just…not natural." She shook the tension out of her shoulders and looked up at the dragon beside her. "But I suppose I'll adjust."

Mórdúil stretched his wings. "That is good. I have a hope that you may one day enjoy it as I do. Though I suppose it may take you a while, being human." He grinned down at her. "But everything in time. And speaking of time," he added, settling down into a crouch and folding his wings neatly at his sides, "it's high time we begin."


	19. Legends of Long Ago

~ Chapter XIX ~**  
Legends of Long Ago **

* * *

"Where would you like me to start, Mórdúil?" Fíohra asked.

The great dragon cast his gaze over the carvings in front of them. He made a dissatisfied sound and turned to the right. After a moment or two he nodded. "I suppose this is a good place."

Fíohra went to the place Mórdúil indicated. It was a little way above her head, but the carvings were bold and stark in the light of the dragonfire torches, and she had no trouble making out the details. To her relief, each story was delineated by thin stone bands running along the circumference of the room, creating narrative layers as high as she could see. The story Mórdúil had pointed out began on the fifth tier above the floor, and Fíohra settled herself close to wall to study it.

The scene opened with the figure of a man seated on a throne. His face was careworn, but his robes were kingly, and Fíohra could see at once that he was a great monarch, though the carvings gave no indication over which land he ruled. She took a step closer. To the left of the king stood a woman with a crown on her head, her face hardened by pride and contempt. Four young men sat at her feet, and Fíohra marveled at the hand that had chiseled each face into the likeness of both mother and father. She knew immediately that these were the sons of the king.

But the woman remained a mystery, for standing at the right of the throne was a second woman, a young child cradled in her arms. Her face was quiet and kindly, yet there too was nobility in her expression, and her little son wore a circlet of gold on his curly-haired head. He took had the look of the king, and Fíohra could not decide if his mother or the other woman was the rightful queen.

The story continued to Fíohra's right. She looked; the scene had changed. The first woman now stood alone, her expression prouder and fiercer than before. The crownless woman was kneeling before her, dressed in rags and weeping. Her child was nowhere to be seen. Fíohra frowned, but the carvings that followed revealed the mystery.

They showed the crowned woman throwing her rival's child out of the castle, her pitiless sneer leaving Fíohra with no doubt as to her intentions. She wished the child—perhaps the only other in the kingdom with a legitimate claim on the throne—to perish in the wild. But her desire was thwarted, for an old man in the robes of a bard rescued the boy, bearing him away to the safety of his mountain village, far from the clutches of the jealous queen.

Fíohra watched as the boy grew into a man under the watchful eye of the old bard. When he was at last full-grown, his adopted father brought him back to the castle of the king, proclaiming to all that the rightful prince had returned to claim his birthright. The king was overjoyed, but his wife was greatly displeased, for she had hoped one of her sons would earn their father's favor in the absence of the true heir.

When the son of her rival reappeared, the world grew dark in the eyes of the queen. So she devised a plot to secure the crown for her eldest son, even while his half-brother was firstborn. The queen persuaded the king to set before his sons a great test. The son who succeeded would inherit the kingdom. The king agreed and the queen rejoiced, for she planned to convince her husband to confide in her the secret of the test he was to set before his sons. She would then reveal his plan to her sons, giving them an unfair advantage over their half-brother.

But here the queen was foiled, for no matter how she tried to talk the secret out of the king, he remained firm. None would know of his plan until he was ready to put it into action, and no one could move him from his silence on the matter. Fíohra laughed as the carvings depicted the various lengths to which the queen strove to obtain the secret, each more desperate from the last. But neither tears nor threats succeeded. Rather, they turned the king's heart from the queen his wife, and when the time came to put his sons to the test, she had only succeeded in losing his favor.

The day of the great trial dawned in beautifully carved detail. Fíohra could almost feel the anticipation of the young men as they stood before their father awaiting their task. The king sat on his throne, majestic and solemn, and to his left stood the disgraced queen. There was no crown on her head. But (to Fíohra's surprise and delight) the second woman had returned to her place at his right hand. She looked much older, and wrinkles as fine as spider-webs had been carved around her eyes. But her rags were gone and she held her head high as she smiled at her son. Fíohra could sense her joy, and it made her own heart glad to see.

The next scene showed the sons of the king beginning their great test. It switched abruptly from the magnificence of the castle to the humble interior of a blacksmith's shop, where the five men worked busily at something Fíohra could not see well. Then, quite suddenly, a fire broke out in the smithy, forcing the young men had to abandon their work. But they had just enough time before the shop was consumed to rescue something.

Fíohra saw at once that this was the true test the king had set before his sons, though they did not yet know it. He watched from the street as they made their choices and fled from the burning building. When all had escaped, the king had them stand before him with their offerings. One son had saved the water-trough; his brother rescued the sword he was forging. The third came away with a shield, and the last son of the queen stood before his father with only a stick of wood in his hand.

But the bard's adopted son had wisely considered his choices before running from the flames, and he presented them to his father with a bowed head and a solemn smile. At the king's feet he laid the blacksmith's hammer, anvil and bellows—the true heart of the smithy. Upon seeing his son's wisdom, the king gladly pronounced him the crown prince, and the people of the kingdom rejoiced, for he was well-loved by all.

The story concluded with a grand banquet in the castle, wherein the king and prince called the queen and her sons before them and forgave them all their treachery. The prince's mother was then returned to her former position, and she accepted the crown of the queen from her son's hand with great joy.

~o~

Fíohra blinked and frowned at the little ridge of stone that signified the end of the story. She had been utterly swept away in the carven tale, and it made her feel strange to glance away from the wall and see only the Leabharlann and Mórdúil's amused face looking down at her. Part of her expected to find the prince standing behind her, greeting his mother and embracing his father as if they had just stepped out of the stone.

Her puzzled expression made Mórdúil laugh. "They are very life-like, are they not?" he asked.

She nodded. "But who is he?" she wondered aloud.

Mórdúil gestured to the carving of the young prince. "His name was Niall, and he was a great king of this land for many long years."

Fíohra reached out a wondering hand to touch the edge of the story. "Then all this really happened?"

"It did indeed. Do you find it interesting?"

She nodded vigorously, lowering her hand. Her eyes jumped to the next carven segment. "May I continue?" she asked.

Mórdúil nodded. "Be my guest."

And so Fíohra spent next several hours devouring the stone tales of the Leabharlann, with the occasional anecdote or addendum from her dragon companion. She passed through stories of royal captives and saints who charmed snakes to impostor kings and merry brigands, each bringing with them their own adventures and complex histories. Fíohra was surprised to find the carvings so easy to understand; in only a few places she needed to pause and ask Mórdúil for clarification. The figures were indeed life-like, as he had said. After a while Fíohra even began thinking of them as players on a miniature stage, enacting their tales in stone-colored costumes. She enjoyed their performance immensely

Indeed, so much so that she did not even pause as the evening wore on to notice her hunger. Supper had been hours before, yet she was too absorbed in the stories to give heed to the protests of her empty stomach. But Mórdúil did. As it rumbled a third time, he chuckled and retreated towards the hole in middle of the Leabharlann. "You sound as if you are in need of a meal, young one," he said with wings outstretched. "Again."

Fíohra turned, the spell of the story broken for a moment. "Oh!" She took stock of her empty stomach and nodded, reddening. "Aye. I suppose I could use a little something."

"Then I will fetch it for you," he replied, drawing in his wings to dive.

Fíohra frowned. "Why can't you summon a maeleachlainn?" she wondered, remembering Maelé's unorthodox entrance to the Westward her first night in the mountain. "Can't they come through the walls?"

Mórdúil tossed his head. "Indeed they can. But I have forbidden that in the Uppermost Hall for fear that they would damage the accounts." He smiled at Fíohra. "Besides, I don't mind."

Fíohra returned his smile, grateful for his consideration. "A'right. And thank you!" she cried after him as he plunged through the opening. She ran to the edge to follow him with her eyes, marveling at the dragon's grace as he spiraled towards the ground with several lazy beats of his wings. After a few minutes, he landed, a dark speck no larger than Fíohra's fist against the pale coppery glow of the stone below.

Then, at the sudden realization of the great distance to the ground, Fíohra hastily backed away from the lip of the opening, glad she had not leaned a fraction of an inch too far forward in her eagerness. It was a _long_ way to fall.


	20. A Tale of Many Waters

~ Chapter XX ~**  
A Tale of Many Waters**

* * *

_Here of all places I can't afford to be clumsy, _she reminded herself, raising her gaze from the entrance to the walls around her, hoping to reclaim her place among the carven stories. But her attention was arrested before she had a chance to find it by an unusually dusty swath of wall. It was close to the floor on the far side of the Leabharlann, and it stood out for the odd reason of being the only inscrutable patch in the whole library.

Frowning, Fíohra circled the room and stood before it, wondering why the maeleachlainn had forgotten to attend to this specific story. Unlike their pristine neighbors, spider-webs hung thickly from these carven figures, draping them in what seemed to be robes of disgrace. Dust had then settled in the webs, casting the entire tale a somber shade of dirt gray. Fíohra crouched down and blew on the carvings, sending up a storm of grit. She coughed and waved it away, but her curiosity was unsatisfied. With an eager hand she brushed away the remaining cobwebs, taking care to leave the delicate stone undamaged. After several minutes of cautious cleaning, the story at last became clear, and Fíohra sat back on her heels to study it.

What she saw nearly made her wish that she had left it under its dusty shroud.

It began with the building of a city—a great city, the like of which Fíohra had never even imagined. It grew tall and strong, and its people were fair. But they were cruel, too, and their hearts were black. Fíohra watched as their city was brought to an end by something she could not understand. Yet that was not the end of their evil, for many survived the fall of the great city. They spread out upon the earth and taught their cruelty to their children, so that by the time many years had passed, the world had grown utterly wicked once more.

Fíohra wanted to cover her eyes, but her curiosity was too strong. So she watched as the carvings depicted the brutality of the ancient kings as they demanded the slaughter of innocents on the altars of their strange, bloodthirsty gods. She watched too as young girls were torn from their homes and robbed of their maidenhead in the streets of the wicked cities while their neighbors passed by on the other side, jeering or ignoring them in turn.

Fíohra watched brother betray brother for a father's favor, and sister betray sister for a suitor's hand. Husbands were murdered in their beds by jealous wives, and wives were strangled in their homes by jealous husbands. Evil heaped upon evil, war heaped upon war and cruelty heaped upon cruelty until Fíohra could stand no more of it. She stood and stepped away from the wall, willing herself to leave the story incomplete.

A low sigh made her whirl around. Mórdúil had heaved himself back up into the floor of the Leabharlan, a basket clutched in one of his claws. With an unfathomably sad look he set the basket on the ground and joined Fíohra in front of the appalling tale.

"I had hoped you would not find this for a long time," he said at last, his thunderous voice muted.

Fíohra stared at her toes, ashamed. "I'm sorry, Mórdúil. I just…I wondered why you had left it so dusty." Thinking of the terrible scenes she had seen, Fíohra turned away from the wall and looked up at her companion. "I guess I understand now."

The dragon settled on his haunches and studied the carvings that Fíohra had cleaned. For a while he was silent. Then, in a cautious tone, he spoke again. "I am not sure that you do, little one."

Fíohra frowned and glanced once more at the wall. "Why not?"

"Am I right to assume you have not finished the tale?" he asked.

She nodded. "It was too horrible."

"That it is, Fíohra. That it is." He paused again, musing. "I have spent years wondering at the brutality of your kind. I have seen much in my long life, but I have not yet come to understand why you mortals love wickedness so. I see it, and I still cannot believe it."

Fíohra thought of the cruelty of the villagers of Baláirdh Drún and did not disagree with him. "Aye," she said softly. "I've seen it too."

"I know you have, child," Mórdúil replied. He made a hissing sound and gestured with a wingtip to the still-dusty portion of the story. "And so I think you should hear the rest. You may…" He stopped, and it seemed as if he was struggling to find the words. "It may help you understand things—things you will soon see. Things about the mountain. Things about me."

Fíohra was instantly intrigued, but she could sense that it was difficult for Mórdúil to speak of it. "You don't have to if you'd rather not," she tried to assure him.

To her surprise, the dragon shook his head. "No. I will be glad to know that you know of this, be it earlier than I had anticipated." He gave her a look, and there was the ghost of amusement in his eyes. "And you may sit, if you wish."

Fíohra did so.

"Now, you have seen how the people of the earth loved evil," Mórdúil began, motioning to the portion that Fíohra had already seen. She nodded and he continued. "But you have not seen how their evil grieved the Mighty One, the Síoraíaon—whose true Name mortal ears may not hear, nor mortal tongue pronounce. The Síoraíaon was filled with sadness as they reveled in their wickedness, and after many years had passed, He wished to unmake that which He had made. So He summoned many waters from above the earth and many waters from beneath it to consume the evil of the creatures He had created, to wash the earth clean of their wickedness."

"Yet one mortal He saved, with his family and all the kinds of beasts that crawl and birds that fly. These alone were spared, and when the earth was clean He gave it over to them as their dominion, to care and cultivate and grow what was good. But the waters He sent back into the earth, sealing them there forever so that His mortals would never fear the wrath of His flood." Mórdúil ended his story with a long thoughtful look at the wall. "And thus they have remained for many ages while the peoples of the earth have turned once more to wickedness."

Fíohra did not know what to say. The dragon's recitation left her mute with awe and not a little fear. After several minutes of gaping, she managed only a single question. "And this…this all _happened_, Mórdúil?"

Her companion nodded. "Indeed." In a lower voice he added, "I often wish I did not remember it so well."

"Oh." There was really no other response, for Fíohra's mind was spinning with the implications of his answer. _How does he know these things? Is he really that ancient?_ she wondered. _Why would he regret the memory? _

But then, even more sobering—_what _is _he, to have seen all this?_

"Fíohra…" Mórdúil interrupted her musings, his tone unexpectedly brusque. "Fíohra…I have shared this room with you because I wish you to understand the history of your people. But this story, as I think you have seen by the state in which I commanded my maeleachlainn to leave it, I have not explained to anyone since its carving. Even my servants do not know the whole of this tale, and they do not ask questions."

"I'm sorry, Mórdúil." Fíohra felt guilty, though she could not see how her dragon companion fit into the ancient story. "You didn't have to."

He shook his head and heaved a hissing sigh. "No. I see now that it is a burden relieved, to speak of it again. However…I know that your curiosity is not yet appeased." Fíohra shrugged, wondering how it was that he knew. But she did not attempt to deny it, so he continued. "Now I fear I must disappoint you, for it would not be wise to share anymore."

Fíohra did not press him, though she dearly wished to know of his secret. "That's a'right."

The dragon's solemn mood lifted, and he favored her with his kindest grin. "My thanks, little one. It means a great deal to me, your willingness to forgive my reticence." Mórdúil raised one wing and gestured to the fading light of the torches. "It is late," he announced. "I should return you to your chamber." He gave the basket he had brought up a rueful nudge with his claw. "And since we hadn't time for this here, I'll instruct the maeleachlainn to bring something to your room."

Fíohra nodded. Though it was late, she was still hungry. The terrible story of the Flood had put off her appetite for the moment, but at the mention of food it came back with a vengeance and her stomach growled. "Thank you, Mórdúil."

He smiled as Fíohra climbed onto his back. "You're welcome. But considering your history with flying, you may want to wait to thank me until we're on the ground again," he reminded her as he balanced himself on the lip of the opening to the cavern below. Fíohra swallowed and he chuckled. "We'll see if you still have that appetite then."

Fíohra squeezed her eyes shut.

He leapt.


End file.
